


All My Tomorrows

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 35,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Jamie would say afterwards that he was doomed from the first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy is skinny and shy, but when he hits that first forty-yard pass, Jamie knows he's going to be seeing a lot more of him. 
> 
> Steven Gerrard, he says his name is. "Stevie, if you like."

The first time they meet is not the first time they see each other. Jamie’s been down to the U18s a few times, watched their matches, trained with the younger boys as a example of what they could become. He’s played with the U18s sometimes, when he’s coming back from injury. He’s heard whisperings of the Scouse wunderkind with an eye for passing and a killer slide tackle to go with it, seen the boy play a couple of times. But he’d been injured, this wonder, while Jamie was actually training with the U18s again, and by the time he’s well again, Jamie’s pulled himself back into first-team training.  
  
(And he doesn’t know it yet, but the kid’s been to Anfield every time he can manage it, and he’s watched him from the Kop, just one skinny little boy in a sea of red.)  
  
So this is the first time they’re standing face to face, these two boys from the same city at the same club, only two years apart. And they leave quite an impression.  
  
(Jamie will say afterwards that he was doomed from the first.)  
  
The boy is only a couple of years younger than Jamie, but Jamie’s still pretty young, so it feels like longer. He’s a skinny little thing, Jamie notices. He’s a little shy, a little nervous. He looks anxious when it comes time for partner stretching, eyes drifting across the crowd of faces to find a friendly-looking one. Jamie takes pity on the boy, crosses the pitch to walk up to him. He sticks his hand out.  
  
_Carra_ , he says by means of introduction.  
  
_I know,_ says the kid, cringing as he instantly realizes how creepy that sounds.  
  
Jamie just quirks an eyebrow and waits.  
  
_Steven Gerrard_ , he says quietly, shaking Jamie’s hand. _Stevie, if you like_.  
  
_Be my warmup partner, Stevie?_ asks Jamie, making it sound like the boy would be doing him a favor instead of the other way around.  
   
He smiles at Jamie, a big, bright, grateful smile, and nods. They walk past some of the other lads to find a spot. Jamie ignores the outrage on Michael’s face. Redders takes pity and pulls him away. Michael looks back at Jamie, betrayal on his face. Jamie makes a mental note to apologize and buy him some of the sweets he likes—they’re not on the diet list, really, but Michael’s got the sort of metabolism that lets him eat whatever he likes without paying the price and the talent to get away with a few chocolates now and then. He still loves Michael, of course he does, but he just looks at the young lad, and he needs a bit of a boost, a friend on his first day training with the first team.  
   
They stretch. Jamie’s learned quickly how much to push—Fowler and Macca’s legs don’t go so far, you always have to be careful with Redders, but the young boys are generally pretty flexible. And they’re both young still, Jamie and the kid. ( _Stevie_ , he reminds himself. _His name is Stevie_.) They’re still young and their muscles are still stretchy, and so they’re pretty bendy compared to the older lads. They do some drills, passing drills, shooting, keeping possession and winning it back. Stevie’s good enough at all of it. He’s good, for a kid. He fits in with the rest of the lads, even the ones old enough to be his father.  
   
Then, they start playing. Eleven v eleven. Jamie’s been converted to a right-back, and he’s normally got his hands full trying to mark Robbie Fowler (they call him God on the Kop, but he’s got the devil in him when he sneaks past Carra). But even he notices the incredible long pass that Steven hits on his second touch. He watches it arc through the air and fall, inch-perfect, at Macca’s feet. This isn’t a movie. The boys don’t just stop what they’re doing to applaud the young kid. But Macca lands it into the back of the net, like poetry in motion. And in the moment afterwards, before they reset the ball, quite a few lads send the boy quick covert glances. When they starts up again, the man marking him becomes a little more respectful, a little more aggressive.  
   
Still, maybe it’s just a one-off, a boy trying to show that he has a man’s skill.  
   
It’s not. He does it again and again, builds a silky understanding with the players in front of him, and Jamie shakes his head in disbelief as his side concedes goal after goal.  
   
Redknapp wraps an arm around the boy as they walk towards the dressing room.  
   
Jamie finds Michael and pulls him back.  
_He’s just a kid,_ Carra says softly. _It’s his first day. I felt bad. He needed a friend_.  
Michael softens, because he always does when Jamie talks that way, and Jamie’s the only one who somehow fails to realize it.  
_You’re a good lad, Carra._ They walk into the dressing room together and that’s that.  
   
Only it’s not. Stevie doesn’t bounce between the first team and the reserves like most players do. He stays, still a skinny little beanpole of a boy, still hitting those forty, fifty yard passes. He gets this look on his face, when he takes Jamie on, one on one. He gets a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, and his eyes light up when he spots the right pass or when he knows exactly which way to step to leave Jamie in his dust. And somehow Jamie doesn’t get angry or frustrated, like he does when Robbie and Macca do it.  
   
He loses a bit of the nerves around the young boys, hangs out with Michael and Jamie a lot. But the older lads still scare him, except Redders, who adores him, takes care of him like a brother. Jamie doesn’t blame him for his reservations, though. The lads aren’t exactly _gentle_ by nature. And Stevie is. He’s gentle off the pitch and fierce on it. Once he gets in, he’ll be fine, and they are lovely most of the time, but getting there isn’t exactly an easy process. And Incey is just plain terrifying, even to Jamie, who fears no one else in the side.  
  
But Stevie is here to stay. Jamie’s secretly rooting for him, somewhere deep inside his head.  
  
They go to away matches together, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bus. Some administrative person notices, and when they fly to Champions League matches, they find themselves sat together on the airplane. In the coach on the way to the hotel, they’re told they’ll be rooming together in the hotel.  
  
And that’s when Stevie learns about Jamie’s insomnia and Jamie learns about Stevie’s homesickness.  
  
It goes like this:  
  
The room is dark. If Jamie’d had his way, he’d be watching telly, but he’s decided against it, to let Stevie sleep, because one of them should, at least. So he’s just lying in bed, staring at the backs of his eyelids, and running through old matches. He has an incredible memory for football, Jamie does. And so he can play through old matches he was a part of, can even get most of the matches he just watched on telly. He remembers the way players run, the way they pick their heads up and look at each other before making the pass, remembers each Cruyff turn and each cheeky backheel that goes right and each challenge that goes wrong.  
  
They’ve been lying there, each in their beds, for awhile. Stevie’s restless, shifting. Jamie is peaceful, used to the awake-ness. Juventus-AC Milan is playing in his head, and Juventus has just scored the first goal off a Pirlo free-kick. He’s the best player in the world, Pirlo, if you ask Jamie, brilliant touch, incredible vision, just absolutely superb—  
  
_Jamie?_ Pirlo fades away, like a file tucked neatly back into its drawer and Stevie shuffles awkwardly to the forefront of his mind.  
  
  
_What’s wrong, Stevie? Can’t sleep?_  
  
_Feels strange._  
  
_What does?_  
  
_The room. The bed. The pillow. Everything._ Stevie takes a slow, uneven breath that Jamie hears in the darkness.

 _Me._  
  
  
  
Stevie’s voice is different in the dark, smaller and more hesitant and more vulnerable, for some reason. And it hits some part of Jamie, the part that was a big brother back when football was a game, not a job.  
  
And in the future, that’s what Jamie will point to as the reason for what he does next.  
  
He does what he used to do for his little brothers.  
  
_Come here, then_. He says, pulling up the covers on the other side of the bed. Jamie always sleeps on the bed closer to the window, for the light.  
  
_Quickly, ‘m getting cold_ , he grumbles. There is the creaking of bedsprings, a few timid steps, and then Stevie is sliding in to the other side of Jamie’s bed. They’re not even touching—they’re two skinny boys used to sleeping in twin beds, they know how to make themselves fit in the space.  
  
_Close your eyes_ , Jamie says, quiet. Stevie inhales deep, exhales slow, slow, _slow_ , and does.  
  
_Tell me about home._  
  
_You’re from Liverpool, too, same as me._  
  
_Your house. Tell me about your house, Stevie._  
  
_My room is smaller than this_ , Stevie says, _and Paul—that’s my brother, you know—his is just across the hall. Mum and Dad are a bit further down._  
  
Jamie hums. Stevie stops, doesn’t know what else to say.  
  
_And what’s your room like?_ Jamie prompts gently.  
  
_Smaller than this. Me pillow’s gone flat, but I like it. ‘ve got posters on me wall. I have one of King Kenny’s shirts framed—he came by to see me when I was in hospital once._ Jamie is curious, but Stevie skirts the topic, so he lets it go.  
  
_Posters of what?_  
  
_Footballers, mostly. Liverpool squad. Pele. Maradona._ He’s quiet for a moment, thinking about it, before he confesses.  
_I even had Barnesy and Robbie and Macca, but I had to take those ones down, it was too odd to be in the dressing room with ‘em and then see ‘em on me wall at home. Don’t tell them, okay?_  
  
_’Course not,_ Jamie says, reassuring, _tell me more._  
  
So Stevie does, and it goes from Stevie describing his home to Jamie describing his, the chaos of two younger brothers sounding rather rougher than solid, dependable Paulie. And then they’re just sharing stories, stories about everything, football and maths class and the pretty girls that wouldn’t give them the time of day back then.

(Probably wouldn’t give them the time of day even now, if they're being honest.)  
  
Stevie finds himself relaxing, muscles softening in the warm bed, more yielding than the one at home, but still nice. He can feel Jamie’s warmth, a foot of space between the two of them. His eyes get heavier, and he drifts off.  
  
Somewhat to his own surprise, Jamie does too, a bit later.  
  
It’s not _home_ , exactly, the place where they have these conversations in the dark, but it quickly becomes familiar. For the first few months, Stevie lies down in his own bed first, waits for the quiet and the dark to ask if Jamie is still awake. He always is, and he always asks Stevie, or tells him, maybe— _come here_ , in the same tone of voice. And Stevie always does.  
  
One night, they’re getting ready for bed, and Stevie’s about to reach for the lamp, when Jamie’s voice pierces the silence.  
  
_May as well just come here now_ , he says, and so Stevie does, secretly relieved that he won’t have to wait in the dark, afraid that tonight will be the night that Jamie sleeps easily and early.  
  
_Jamie?_

_Hmm?_

_Thank you,_ Stevie says, earnest like he always is.

_For what?_

_For this. You didn’t have to—you still don’t have to. But it helps._ Stevie scoots towards the warmth of Jamie’s side of the bed.

 _Helps me too, Steve._ Jamie says, and they leave it at that.  
  
It becomes a recurring event, and then at some point it becomes a habit, and then at some point it becomes a prerequisite for sleep.  
  
And at some point, it starts feeling unnervingly the way home is supposed to, not that either of them acknowledges it.  
  
Jamie isn’t sure when it happens, but it does. He spends more time with Stevie these days than he does with Michael, even without the sleeping, and one night, he realizes that the boy he’s known longer is no longer the one he knows better.  
  
Michael takes it as well as he can. That’s what Jamie tells himself, and he half-suspects it’s what Michael tells himself, too. He’s an adult, or he’s doing a good job of pretending, already a settled member of the squad, gets on well with the lads who are older than him and mentors the young kids. He and Jamie and Stevie all hang out together a lot, between training sessions and in three-person training drills, so it’s not like he and Jamie _never_ see each other.  
  
But without Jamie, it falls apart, and Stevie and Michael never really have that same bond between them. They’re too similar, too aggressive, almost too driven, even though the boss says there’s no such thing. They get wound up over errors, and blame each other for misplaced passes or ignoring signals or whatever else they can think of as code for _Carra was mine first. But Jamie’s mine now. Carra. Jamie. Carra_. Michael doesn’t find out about their sleeping arrangements until they’re already a few years in.  
  
But when they go from three-person drills to pairs, Michael knows instinctively that he needs to find another partner, because at some point _Carra and Gerrard_ became _StevieandCarra_ , _CarraandStevie_. But Michael holds on, desperate for his best friend and annoyingly enough, fond of the kid for his own sake as well, sometimes. And so the friendship ages somewhat gracefully, wearing the distance so well that only a few people notice it’s even there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be fair, Stevie didn't actually mean to say it.

Stevie doesn’t _mean_ to say it. He _realizes_ it around a year and a half after they meet, and consciously decides _against_ saying it, ever. Still, somewhere between discussing their favorite books and Stevie descending into dreams, he loses control of his mouth, and his thoughts drift down to his tongue, and the words spill out, soft and sweet and sleepy-honest.  
  
They’re in bed together one night when he tells Jamie, somewhere in Italy. The night is young there, and strains of violin music drift into the room from the window, open a crack because it’s hot outside, but the air conditioning is too cold for Jamie, (his body is a little more cold-sensitive than Stevie’s), and that is the compromise they settle on. Yes, the night is young for hot-blooded Italians, but professional footballers are expected to go to bed early, insomnia be damned.  
  
 _Love you, J_ , he mumbles, nestling closer to Jamie’s shoulder, much closer than the foot of space between them the first time they’d done this.  
  
Stevie is too young to ruin his life. That’s Jamie’s first thought when the words slip out. And Jamie’s not stupid, he _knows_ that this could ruin his life if he lets it. Could ruin both of their lives, really.  
  
Jamie is quiet for a moment, but that isn’t unusual. For a lad that’s so loud on the pitch, Jamie is a fairly quiet guy. But that’s not actually true, Stevie realizes. That’s just what Stevie sees, late at night, when Jamie lives inside his own head and in the bed Stevie’s secretly started thinking of as theirs.  
  
 _Shh_ , he says softly, _go to sleep, Stevie_. He isn’t sure Stevie will hear him. But Stevie is too young to ruin his life, and Jamie knows it, and so he pretends he doesn’t hear, pretends that this thing between them isn’t growing from friendship into something messier, less predictable, something that could ruin one football team and two promising careers.  
  
In the morning, Stevie’s fine, and Jamie knows, because he watches him all morning, watches him eat the same breakfast he always eats, hears him go into the shower and come out, taking the same four and a half minutes he normally takes. Stevie makes them both their normal cups of tea, Stevie’s sweeter and Jamie’s with what Stevie describes as _an obscene amount of milk, Jamie, honestly, have you no shame?_ Jamie settles down, breathes a little easier.  
  
As far as Stevie’s concerned, everything’s still the same. Jamie, on the other hand, replays that sleepy whisper every night they spend together. He tries to forget that it ever happened, but the same memory that is so brilliant for football refuses to have mercy on him now. He remembers. Every day, he remembers, when he sees Stevie’s smile across the pitch, when Stevie scores a goal and finds his way into Jamie’s arms, when the press has nice things to say about them and not-so-nice things. The words beat inside him. _Love you, J. Love-you, love-you, love-you._ They chase each other around his head, like a dog after its own tail, in the hours he lies awake, Stevie next to him, sound asleep.  
  
And the words he hasn’t said beat inside him too, less frequent but no less forceful for it. _Love you too, Stevie. You-too, you-too, you-too_.  
  
Some nights it changes. _We can’t carry on like this. We-can’t, we-can’t, we-can’t._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie’s drunk and young and possessive, apparently.

Early 2000, Stevie starts hurting. He hisses when Jamie touches his back by mistake, one night after a tough match. Jamie pulls at his shirt, gentle, and is aghast at the redness, the swelling. He slides out of bed and pads barefoot in the hallway to fetch some ice. He puts the ice into a plastic bag, wraps the bag in a spare t-shirt so it’s not too cold, and lays it on Stevie’s back.  
  
_You need a doctor_ , he tells Stevie, voice shaking. He’s right. Stevie’s too young to ruin his life, too young to ruin his growing body—growing too fast—with too much football.  
  
He’s too young, too young and too soft and too brilliant and he belongs too much to Jamie for such a young, young man.  
  
Jamie spends most of the night icing Stevie’s back, until he starts to shiver. Then he slips out of bed, dumps the ice into the sink, and slips back into his side of the bed, pulling Stevie into his arms. He lets out a hum at the warmth, and the sound of it echoes in Jamie’s head. He’s almost twenty years old. Jamie’s twenty-two.  
  
Stevie’s too young, too young and too soft and too brilliant and Jamie belongs to him, too much for such a young, young man.  
  
And then it’s the groin. Stevie’s normally a restless sleeper. He flips over, turns around, kicks Jamie now and again. But when the groin injuries start and seem to never heal, he starts sleeping stiff, whimpers if he stretches or flexes his muscles the wrong way. Jamie gives him his pillow every night, and he props it under his thigh, wincing until it flattens to just the right angle and then sighing in relief.  
  
Some nights, Jamie fetches a pillow from the other bed, the one that’s meant to be Stevie’s. But some nights, Stevie’s fingers are tight on his wrist, and he shifts his own pillow to the center of the bed, and they share. Some nights Jamie ends up sleeping on his arm, waking up to find himself numb from shoulder to fingertips. It doesn’t stop him, though.  
  
There are operations, when the groin injuries don’t show any desire to heal on their own. Four operations. Four times Jamie drives Stevie to the hospital and talks to him until they take him away. Four times Jamie runs up to the children’s ward and draws pictures and signs casts and ruffles hair and kisses soft little hands.  
  
(Sometimes the little hands have needles going into the blue veins.)  
  
Four times the nurse taps Jamie gently on the shoulder and tells him Stevie’s done now. Four times Jamie leaves the kids, smiling and waving goodbye, to go down to see Stevie, who isn’t his yet, except for all the ways he is.  
  
Four times Stevie wakes up from anesthesia to a hand in his, opens his heavy eyes to see Jamie, leaning back in a chair with a football book in his free hand, turning the pages with his thumb.  
  
Four times Stevie’s dry voice cracks on the quiet _Hiya, J_ , the coded _I’m here and I’m alright and I love you and thank you for staying with me_.  
  
Four times Jamie smiles, weak with relief, and says _Hi Stevie_. Stevie hopes he reads it right, as _I’m here and I love you too and there’s nowhere I’d rather be than at your side_.  
  
They make it through 2000 somehow. Some nights, Stevie lies beside Jamie in bed, arm folded beneath his head, and thinks about what he might do, if his body doesn’t hold up, if he doesn’t make it. Then Jamie turns around and wraps a warm arm round his middle, and he stops thinking about it and starts thinking about this. Either way, it takes him awhile to sleep.  
  
So 2000 is hard, but they do manage to make it through.  
  
  
2001 is _glorious_. Trophy after trophy after trophy. He and Stevie lift them together, and it’s the most amazing thing they’ve ever felt. Jamie is young and in _lo_ —in _way_ over his head, and he doesn’t care.  
  
2001 is getting drunk after winning the League Cup in February. Stevie’s almost twenty-one and Jamie’s just turned twenty-three. ( _At some point,_ Jamie thinks, _at some point, Stevie will not be such a young, young man._ Jamie doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.)  
  
It’s getting drunk on a few more than a few beers, because they’re still young, they still think they can handle more than they actually can, somehow, and they fall into the same trap each time.  
  
It’s a sloppy, giggling Stevie pressing his lips to Jamie’s in a dark corner of the celebration party. It’s Jamie pressing back, sober enough to know they shouldn’t, but drunk enough on beer and victory and Stevie— _love you, J. You-too, you-too, you-too_ —not to really care. It’s Jamie thinking _fuck the trophy, you’re the real prize here_. It’s Stevie’s fingers, careless as they dance at Jamie’s waist, sliding under his shirt up his back.  
  
It’s Michael, who frowns and puts down his beer.  
  
It’s Michael, who sighs and pulls them away from each other, hands gentle on Stevie’s shoulders. They’re still holding hands as he leads them away from the party.  
  
It’s Michael, who flushes and looks away as he starts searching Jamie’s pants pockets for the room key, Jamie giggling madly and making innuendos. Stevie’s drunk and young and _possessive_ , apparently. He sees his Jamie being groped and tries to shove Michael away. Michael sighs and managed to hold him off long enough to get the key and open the door. He deposits them into their room. He kneels on the carpet, takes off their shoes, feels Jamie’s hand run through his hair. _Hiya, Mickey_ , he says. Michael smiles at him, that special soft smile that’s only ever aimed at Carra. _Go to sleep now, Carra_.  
  
It’s Michael, who sees them pile into the same bed almost on top of each other. It’s Michael, who sees Stevie pressing his open mouth to Jamie’s again, Jamie’s hands disappearing under Stevie’s shirt, pressing into the muscles of his back.  
  
Jamie, who could have been his, once, maybe.  
  
Jamie, who makes a small, quiet sound as Stevie kisses him, a sound that Michael was never meant to hear. Michael slips away.  
  
It’s Michael, stone-cold sober in the room next door, throwing up in the bathroom because _he’s lost them both_ , _lost them both, lost them both_ , and somehow it hurts _so much more_ than he thought it would.

 

  
Stevie wakes up on Jamie’s bare chest, sees two blue-purple marks high on Jamie’s neck that weren’t there before, and blushes redder than he’s ever been before.  
  
He panics. He’s still wearing his pants, which is a promising sign, and Jamie’s got his sweats on as well, so there’s _that_ , at least. He remembers how to breathe again.  
   
_Jamie_ , he whispers, patting Jamie’s shoulder, _Jamie, wake up, I think we—Jamie? Please wake up, because I’m freaking the fuck out here, and you’re, ah, you’re still sleeping,_ _you absolute dickhead._  
  
_Jamie._ He says more firmly, shaking the shoulder in question rather vigorously _. It’s time to wake up now, because there’s something we need to deal with._  
  
Jamie wakes up, looks down at himself, looks up at Stevie, and wonders why he drinks at all while simultaneously wanting to drink until this whole thing is over. _What do you remember?_ he asks Stevie, closing his eyes against the headache.  
   
Between the two of them, they manage to piece together most of the night. Stevie doesn’t mention the marks on Jamie’s neck, doesn’t quite know how to bring it up. He decides to lead into it gently.  
   
_I kissed you last night._  
   
_I kissed you back. You weren’t bad. Had a lot of practice, have you?_  
  
Stevie flushes again _. A bit_ , he says shyly _._  
  
Jamie’s smiling lazily at him, and Stevie’s still practically on top of him when he feels the sudden mad urge to kiss him again. He doesn’t, though, can’t without the excuse of drunkenness to fall back on.  
  
_Who cares? We won a trophy yesterday_ , Jamie says, grinning up at Stevie, now sufficiently relaxed to lounge shirtless beside him in bed.  
  
Stevie grins back at him. _I’m glad you feel that way, because the trophy’s not the only thing you’ll have to remember last night by_.  
  
_What do you mean by that?_  
  
He reaches out, presses a finger against each little purple mark. _I’m sorry about that,_ he says, with a smirk that looks anything but apologetic.  
  
Jamie looks confused for a moment. Stevie can almost _see_ the moment it clicks.  
  
_No. You **didn’t**_ , he says. Stevie shrugs, and it’s just nonchalant enough that it has Jamie sprinting into the bathroom. Stevie can hear the curses through the open doorway.  
  
_This was you?! What the hell possessed you to—_  
  
_That’ll teach Owen not to grope you again. Maybe next time he’ll think before trying to take what’s mine_ , Stevie says teasingly, and when Jamie leaps onto the bed with youth’s exuberance and its recklessness in equal turn, and wrestles him into a headlock, he’ll admit that he probably deserves it.  
  
As far as the lads know, Jamie had gone out and found himself a girl who admired football, or footballers, or just liked medals, or just liked medal-winners…  
  
_Or maybe she just liked Jamie_ , Stevie offers. He’s promptly laughed off, though he does earn a soft look from Jamie, and suddenly he can’t meet the other boy’s eyes anymore.  
  
_You actually closed for once_ , Redders crows when he finds out, pulling him into an affectionate embrace and ruffling his hair. _Well done, lad_.  
  
_Yeah, well done,_ adds Robbie. _If she wasn’t put off by your terrible hair or the way you always look like someone’s just run over your cat, then you really lucked out._  
  
_I’m sure she was perfectly lovely, Carra_ , calls Stevie from across the way, suitably recovered from his earlier remark. His voice isn’t quite casual enough, his mouth is tugging up at the corners, and there’s a proud glint in his eye. Luckily, nobody notices, because this is about Jamie, and not the girl who doesn’t exist. Jamie gets a bit of a twinkle in his eye and grins at him.  
  
Stevie’s always been the type to stand up for himself, Jamie remembers with a grin.  
  
_Yeah, she was, actually._  
  
Michael doesn’t look either of them in the eye for the next few days, until the skin on Jamie’s neck is all healed up, uniformly pale.  
  
The next time they win a trophy—the FA Cup in May—and get smashed at the celebration party, they go back to the room before anyone can see them. The next morning, it’s Stevie waking up with a mark, just beneath the corner of his jaw.  
  
_Turnabout’s fair play_ , Jamie says sweetly, reaching out and pressing a finger gently against the spot.  
  
  
He gets a talk from Redders later about being a bad influence, because _Stevie’s still just a kid. You’re older than him, he looks to you as an example. You found a girl after a trophy, then he went and did the same thing. I know it's boring, but you're a role model now, Carra._  Jamie just barely holds his tongue, barely stops himself from saying _He may be young, but kids don’t kiss like **that**._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie's named vice-captain in 2002. Jamie isn't jealous. 
> 
> And 2003 is great, too. Until September, that is, when they find themselves in a hospital room.

Stevie’s named vice-captain in 2002. Jamie isn’t jealous, doesn’t think he knows how to be jealous of Stevie. He’s only got room for pride in the kid, ( _and, and—_ ) the kid who isn’t really a kid anymore, the kid who kisses like a dream, but maybe that’s because Jamie only half remembers it, just barely remembers the sparks in his stomach. The kid who still gets nightmares some nights and tugs at Jamie’s arm until he wakes up and comforts him.  
  
_Me parents **died** , J. Me **parents**._

_Hush, Stevie, lad, it was just a dream._

_What if it wasn’t?_

_They’d call us, if it wasn’t. And they haven’t called, so it was just a dream. Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream._

_Just a dream…_  
  
Michael isn’t Jamie, though, and he is a bit jealous, in spite of himself. He doesn’t want to be, he wants to be happy for the lad. Happy for Jamie’s lad, as he’s starting to think of him. But Michael had been there first. First in the team, first to meet Jamie, first, first, first—  
  
—And he is _exactly_ the right age to belong to Jamie, and sharp much of the time and soft only for Jamie and brilliant always.  
  
He doesn’t complain, though, knows it would reinforce all of Stevie’s doubts and raise Jamie’s ire—and oh, what a shift _that_ is! Jamie getting angry with _him_ now, over someone else!  
  
So he forces himself to be happy for him. Both of them. Really.  
  
In 2002, Jamie finds out that the knock on his knee isn’t going away on its own. He needs an operation. He’s going to miss the World Cup. He isn't proud of it, but he cries into Stevie’s shoulder. Stevie’s twenty-two and Jamie’s twenty-four and it’s the first time Stevie’s taken care of him instead of the other way around. Stevie holds him tight, arms wrapped around him, rocking just slightly back and forth, making soft shushing noises. He doesn’t say it’s okay.  
  
Stevie drives him to the hospital, and he’s there when he wakes up afterwards, watching a match on the telly with the volume muted. His hand is just resting on top of Jamie’s on the bed.  
  
Redders visits them in hospital—he’s injured too. Stevie, young and forever unafraid, defiant and unbreakable, leaves his hand on top of Jamie’s and looks at their captain, daring him to say something. Redders, to his credit, doesn’t seem surprised.  
  
He pulls the other chair up to Jamie’s bedside, opposite Stevie. He looks at the both of them.  
  
_I’ve tried to help you boys as much as I can,_ he says. _But my body…_ He trails off, makes a noise of frustration.

  
_You’ll get well again soon,_ Stevie says kindly, _wearing the armband and scoring screamers._

  
Redders smiles softly at him _. I think that’s going to be your job going forward, Stevie. I can’t keep up, not here. I’ve gotten a few offers. I’ll stay in England, but I can’t play here anymore._ He shrugs, looking helpless and trapped. _My body won’t let me, and soon enough,_ he looks at Stevie _, you won’t let me._ His voice is gentle, absolving Stevie of blame, almost proud of his progress, and in that moment, both of them remember why they adore their captain.

  
_You two are going to be the future of this club, I can tell. And you’re both brilliant, strong, brave young men. I couldn’t be prouder of you._  
_Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other, though I don’t think I need to tell you that._ He looks pointedly at their hands, watches Stevie’s fingers tighten over Jamie’s hand.

  
_You have my number,_ he says _. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate, alright, boys? I raised you, and you’re just the same as two of my own now, whatever colors I wear on the pitch._

  
He gets up and shakes their hands, wishes Jamie a speedy recovery, and turns to leave. He turns back at the doorway, smiling a little.

  
_There were no girls, were there?_ He asks. Jamie and Stevie look at each other, as if to coordinate their answers.

  
_No,_ Stevie says quietly _._

  
_I owe you an apology, Carra. I wouldn’t have guessed that Stevie was the bad influence._ Jamie and Redders exchange grins, while Stevie looks at Jamie, confused.

  
_Be careful,_ Redders says one last time, _and take care of each other._ And then he turns and leaves. The next time they see him he’s in a Tottenham strip. He pulls them each close in the tunnel and kisses their foreheads, like a father bestowing a blessing.  
  
A few weeks later, Stevie pulls his hamstring. He can’t go to the World Cup, either. He’s more stoic about it than Jamie had been. Jamie stands up, crosses the room, and sits beside him on the bench, wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close. Stevie turns, presses his face into Jamie’s shoulder, and holds him tight, fingers digging into Carra’s side, hard. Carra holds him until he relaxes, until his fingers release that tension, and he goes soft under Jamie’s arm. Jamie doesn’t say it’s okay, though, because it isn’t. For either of them, now.  
  
They sit together on Jamie’s couch, morosely drinking beers and watching. Michael is there, looking smaller on the television screen than he does in real life, looking absolutely tiny next to the Brazilian players, who aren’t so large, but seem it, giants of the game. Ronaldinho scores a free kick to knock England out in the quarters. The little Michael on the screen is crying, then, and being comforted by a little Emile and a little Robbie, (at Leeds now, but Liverpool would not forget God so quickly). Stevie and Jamie finish their beers and turn off the telly, watching their little teammates and their little tears go pitch black at the press of a button.  
  
  
2003 is better. They win the League Cup in March. There’s another party, and drunkenness is as good an excuse as it ever was. This time they both wake up with little marks, Stevie’s just under his collarbone, and Jamie’s low, where his neck meets his shoulder, and it’s a small mercy that at least this time they can be covered up by their collared dress shirts. Once is a mistake, twice coincidence or payback, but three times? Stevie wonders if maybe…  
  
Jamie decides that it has to be the last time. It’s starting to mean too much now. He knows that, when he finds himself pressing into the dark spot absently, savoring the soreness and trying to prolong it. It’s not fair to continue like this, not when it means something to Jamie and Stevie’s just happy about a football match.  
  
Houllier asks Carra to come in a few minutes early to training one day, to meet him in his office. He tells him Stevie’s going to be named captain. Jamie tries not to let on that he already knows.

(Stevie had called him the day he found out—

 _I-I’m going to be_ captain _, J._

  
_You’ll be brilliant, lad._

  
_Do you really think so?_

 _Yes_.

  
_Will you help me?_

  
_Always_.)

  
  
Houllier says he’s going to need a new vice-captain now that Stevie’s to move up. Houllier says he thinks Jamie’s got it in him to be a good vice-captain.  
  
As if everyone and their mother didn’t already know that it was _CarraandStevie, StevieandCarra_.  
  
That day, after training, he lingers in the dressing room, until he and Stevie are the last ones left.  
  
_D’you know who your new vice-captain’s gonna be then?_ He asks casually.  
  
Stevie grins at him. _I know Houllier told you this morning_. Stevie wraps his arms around Jamie, squeezes him tight. _I’m so glad it’s you, J_.  
  
Jamie grins back, takes three little steps so Stevie’s back is leaning against the lockers. He takes Stevie’s face between his palms.  
  
_Can I?_ He asks hoarsely, looking at Stevie’s eyes.  
  
Stevie squeezes them shut, takes a second to think—one of them has to, surely—and against his better judgment, because he wants, he _wants_ , and he’s just a man, and still young, he nods, and so Jamie does.  
  
It’s not official yet. There are no celebrations, and there are no drinks, and so there are no _drunken_ kisses.  
  
The locker room… it’s a one-time thing (even if it is the fourth time overall). They’ve never talked about it, but they both know that it has to stop. They should really be more careful now, anyway. Captains and vice-captains have more at stake, more attention from the press. If they keep walking around with love bites, even one of their teammates might be able to put it together, oblivious as they are.  
  
Jamie almost doesn’t care. Almost doesn’t care about anything, really, except the man by his side and the badge on his chest. 

  
  
So yes, 2003 is good. Then September rolls around.  
  
Stevie remembers it in flashes afterwards, like a series of photographs. He remembers having the ball at his feet, passing it to Carra, watching Lucas Neill slide into a tackle, thinking that the angle seemed _wrong_ …

Carra, on his back.

  
Jamie, clutching at his leg, face tight with pain. Jamie, trying to stand up, trying, trying, because he wants to keep playing, the idiot— _my idiot_ , Stevie thinks, fond and frantic as he sprints over to him.  
  
Stevie wants to scream at him to _stay the fuck down_.  
  
He tamps down hard on that instinct and speaks instead, voice low and soothing. _Stay down, J, love, wait for the doctor, let’s wait for the doctor together. Let’s wait for help, Jamie._  
  
Jamie, somehow not hearing him, or not listening, brushing his hands away, Jamie mumbling, _No, I can_ —and using Stevie’s shoulder to somehow maneuver into a standing position, one foot hovering six inches above the ground. Stevie’s standing beside him, a supportive arm around Jamie’s waist. Jamie’s foot nearly touching the ground…  
  
_Jamie’s wanted to play football since he was three years old_ , Stevie remembers idly, a fragment of memory from some night in some hotel in Spain or France or—it doesn’t matter.  
  
Because Jamie’s foot touches the ground.  
  
Jamie, on his back again, deathly pale, screaming, screaming in a stadium that had fallen silent.  
  
Stevie feeling ice cold, even as sweat drips down his brow, even as he drops to his knees, takes Jamie’s cheek in his hand, starts rambling nonsensically about how _everything is going to be okay, Carra, everything’s going to be fine, love, we’ll be okay, J, okay?_   Someone else comes up behind them—it’s Didi, who looks down at them and then looks up at Houllier and signals urgently for the medical staff and a substitution. Half the bench is up, to go warm up or just to see what the commotion’s all about. Other teammates make their way over, finally recognizing that this isn’t a play for a free-kick or a foul or a yellow. Because Jamie never stays down. He _never_ stays down.  
  
Their teammates form a circle around the pair of them, Jamie gasping in pain— _it hurts, Stevie, it hurts_ and Stevie desperately trying to distract him— _I know, Jamie, I know, love, the doctor’s coming, we’re going to be okay, we’re going to be fine, J, I promise_ , protecting them from the crowd and the cameras.  
  
Stevie doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about the three points, doesn’t care about Didi behind him, doesn’t care that he’s in the way, that the medical staff are trying to treat Jamie. He doesn’t care that he’s revealing his biggest secret to people who could very easily make his life a living hell. He doesn’t care about anything, because Jamie’s eyes are hazy with pain and they’re looking up at Stevie as if he’s the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him conscious.  
  
Didi reaches down, wraps his arms around Stevie’s middle and hauls him up, gets him out of the way so the medical staff can do their job. It hurts—Didi’s bigger than him and stronger than he realizes, and Stevie wasn’t made to be picked up round the stomach, but he keeps his eyes on Jamie, until Jamie closes his, grimacing as someone touches his leg, trying to assess the damage.  
  
Didi puts a hand on Stevie’s shoulder then, and squeezes. _I know it hurts, Stevie,_ he says, voice soft. It's jarring, because Stevie can feel his hard, heavy hands on his shoulders, but his voice is so gentle, _I know it hurts, but stay focused. We’re winning this fucking thing for him, okay?_ Stevie looks at Didi’s eyes, always serious, and nods, even though he only hears two words— _it hurts, it hurts, it hurts_. But then, Jamie is hurting more.  
  
The stretcher, being born by four strong men, carrying Jamie Carragher off the pitch, no longer screaming, but silent, biting his lip bloody and arm over his eyes to hide the few tears that dare to drip down his cheeks.  
  
Stevie remembers.  
  
Neill doesn’t get a red. He gets a yellow and a long talking to and Stevie is savagely happy about it, because now he can…  
  
Neill hits the ground hard. Once. Twice. The referee pulls Stevie aside, has a word with him about being too aggressive.  
  
_I know Carragher’s a mate of yours, son, but if you do it again, I’m going to have to give you a yellow_.

 _Yes, sir, I understand._  
  
He sees Michael take down Neill too. Michael puts a hand out and helps Neill up after the challenge, pulls him in close and whispers something to him that makes him go pale. Neill flinches when Michael pats him on the shoulder, a little too hard to be friendly.  
  
Stevie loves Michael, for a moment there, more than he’s ever loved anyone. ( _except, except, except…_ and he hasn’t even _told_ him.)  
  
He puts in one more challenge himself, just for emphasis. _Don’t ever fucking touch him again,_ he says to Neill as he watches him stand up. He doesn’t offer him a handshake, just turns away and takes the yellow card without protest. He remembers Houllier screeching at him, threatening to take him off. Sami comes up to him, because that’s what the captain’s supposed to do. _We can’t lose you too_ , _Stevie_ , he says. _Not you too_.  
  
He does consider it, getting himself sent off, for half a second. It wouldn’t be difficult, all he would have to do is be reckless, leave his studs up, leave it a second too late, follow through with both feet … And then he could go to Jamie, hold Jamie’s hand in the hospital room, and that's all he wants, is to hold Jamie's hand.  
  
But then, Jamie wouldn’t let him, would he? Not if they lost the game. He’d be mad. He’d shout at Stevie, gesture wildly until his hand smacked against his leg and he grimaced in pain. And Stevie would reach, would plead, _Jamie, please, just let me_ —And Jamie would pull his hand away and say _no_.  
  
_No_ , Stevie thinks, _we’re winning this, and then I’ll go_.  
  
Stevie backs off, even though Neill isn’t screaming the way Jamie had screamed, the screams that are going to echo in his nightmares for weeks.  
  
They win it, and Stevie showers for maybe thirty seconds before he heads straight to Jamie’s hospital room, hair still damp. Stevie can’t stop looking at the needle in his arm, feeding him a steady drip, drip, drip that stops the nerves in his leg from telling his brain how much he’s hurting. They’ve given him some morphine, the nurse tells him. Stevie can tell—he looks sleepy. When Stevie comes in and closes the door behind him, Jamie’s eyes open blearily.  
  
_Did we win?_

  
_Yeah, J, we won. We won it for you, love._ Stevie is gentle, but then he always is with Jamie.  
  
  
Stevie pulls a chair up to Jamie’s bed and takes Jamie’s hand in his. Jamie holds him back—he feels the grip, and then Jamie’s eyes drift closed. He’s been asleep for a few minutes when Stevie breaks the silence that’s settled over the room.  
  
_I think I love you, Jamie_ , he whispers. _I think I may have for awhile now_.  
  
Jamie doesn’t stir.  
  
Stevie watches him for a few minutes, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the steady drip, drip, drip of morphine into his IV, the way the needle goes into his arm, goes _into_ Jamie, at the leg that has been wrapped in plaster and is propped up on a pillow. The window blinds are closed. Jamie prefers them open, likes to see the lights when he can’t sleep at night. Stevie frowns, goes to open them, but finds he can’t reach without letting go of Jamie’s hand. He sits down again, glares at the blinds, and leans back in his chair, letting his eyes close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neill did get a red on the day, but that's no fun. Jamie didn't get carried off--he had a medic under each arm and they sort of hopped him off the pitch and he got onto a gurney in the tunnel. He didn't, to my knowledge, cry, but then again, adrenaline is a wonderful thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie wakes the next morning to the sound of a polite cough. 
> 
> They find out the extent of Jamie's injury, and Stevie tries to deal with away trips alone.

When Stevie wakes, Jamie’s fingers are resting loosely in his, and his face is pressed against the edge of Jamie’s bed, a few inches away from Jamie’s hip. His back and neck are sore, and his left arm’s gone numb from sleeping on it. Some kind nurse has laid a blanket round his shoulders.  
  
There’s the sound of a polite cough, and Stevie realizes what exactly woke him from his sleep.  
  
 _Hullo, Sami_ , he says, voice and back both cracking as he sits up.

  
_Hi, Steven. Have you been here all night?_

  
_Guess so_ , Stevie says, _must have fallen asleep._

  
Sami is quiet. _Are you going to tell him?_

  
_That we won? I already did, last night. He was awake when I got here._

  
Sami looks at their hands _. That you love him, Stevie. Are you going to tell him that you love him?_

  
 _I don’t know_ , Stevie says _. I think he might know already, or suspect, at least._

  
 _Have you ever_ told _him?_

  
 _I don’t want him to leave,_ Stevie whispers.

  
 _I don’t think he_ could _leave you,_ Sami says quietly, _I don’t think he would know how_. Stevie isn’t so sure _._  
  
Jamie has numerous X-rays done, but it only takes one to see that his leg is broken. Stevie drives him to his doctor’s appointments at Melwood. He’s with him when they find out he’ll be out for six months. Jamie stays stoic, but when the doctor excuses himself, his face falls and he reaches for Stevie’s hand.  
  
A couple of weeks later, Stevie is officially named captain of Liverpool Football Club. Jamie congratulates him, leaning on his crutches as he shakes Stevie’s hand.  
  
The same day, Jamie is officially named vice-captain of Liverpool Football Club. Stevie congratulates him, braces Jamie’s weight against his shoulder as they shake hands and exchange grins.  
  
The team goes away to Europe. Stevie sleeps alone, spends the night tossing and turning in the bed by the window and hearing Jamie’s screams, watching blood drip from his torn lip, staining his teeth a horrible, gruesome pink. He watches Jamie cry, feels the itch to hold his hand, to wipe his cheeks, straining against the desire to take the pain from him, in any way he could. He shifts in the bed, waiting for Jamie to shake him awake and tell him it was just a dream…  
  
At some point the scene changes, to the doctor’s office, a tall blonde woman in a white coat pursing her lips. _I’m so sorry_ , she says, _you’ll never be able to play football again_. Jamie’s eyes, wide and devastated and wet. Stevie, sitting beside him, heart breaking, with nothing to give but his hand and his heart, _his heart…_  
  
 _It was just a dream, lad_ , Jamie doesn’t say. _I’m fine. Be back on the pitch with the rest of yous in no time_ , Jamie doesn’t say. Because Jamie is still in Liverpool.  
  
When he wakes up the next morning, he reaches out blindly to cold sheets, and wonders if Jamie managed to sleep any better than he did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 2003/04 season finally ends, and Stevie faces some tough choices. 
> 
> The Europeans Championships are in Portugal that year, and it's nice while it lasts, even if Stevie is anxious and stressed most of the time.

_The season is going well, at least_ , Jamie thinks at home, during painful rehab sessions, during long, sleepless nights, trying to stay positive.  
  
They’re title contenders, surprising everyone.  
  
Michael gets injured.  
  
They’re plummeting down the table in a race to the bottom, caught in utter free fall.  
  
Jamie and Stevie show up at Michael’s door one day, bringing their smiles and a six-pack of beer. Jamie’s still on crutches, will be for a few more months. But they sit on either side of Michael on the couch, and Jamie props his heavy, plaster-covered leg across Michael’s lap with a grimace, and Michael feels loved again. Stevie’s on his other side, leaning into him, and for once, Michael doesn’t feel like a substitute.  
  
Michael gets well again. He scores goal after goal, pulling Liverpool up the table with the single-minded determination of Apollo pulling the sun across the sky using nothing more than his body, just muscle and sinew and bone grinding together.  
  
The cast comes off Carra’s leg, and he recovers enough to play the last half-hour of the last match of the season.  
  
They clinch the last Champions League spot. Jamie runs over to Stevie and leaps onto his back. Stevie’s hands tuck under his thighs, holding him steady. Jamie’s arms are tight around Stevie’s neck, his voice light with relief. Michael sees his lips move, but doesn’t hear the words in the cauldron of noise that is Anfield. He doesn’t need to, though. He knows. _We did it, Stevie. We did it._  
  
Michael has half a dozen of his teammates around him, patting him and hugging him and pulling his head in to kiss at his hair. But his eyes are glued to Stevie and Carra, the two of them apart from the rest of the team. Alone, together, basking in the adoration of the Kop.  
  
Michael is alone, alone, in a crowd of people who love him.  
  
And that is how the 2003/2004 season ends. Stevie isn’t happy with the team, isn’t even really happy with himself. His agent calls. _Chelsea have made an offer,_ he says.  
  
_No_ , Stevie says.  
  
_Just think about it_ , Struan says, and Struan’s never led Stevie wrong before, so he does.  
  
He thinks and thinks and thinks until he thinks he’s going to explode. He thinks at home, and he thinks in Portugal, in bed next to a sleeping Jamie at the European Championships.  
  
Jamie knows about the offer. Struan’s his agent too, and Stevie doesn’t have the heart to keep it from him. Jamie would never interfere, would never presume to give him career advice, not unless he asked. So they don’t talk about it much. Every now and then Jamie asks him if he’s still thinking about it, and Stevie says _yes_ , and Jamie says _okay_.  
  
Stevie is afraid, when he first tells Jamie about the offer. It’s their first night in Portugal, in a training camp a few weeks before the tournament actually starts. And Stevie is afraid that Jamie will shout and throw things and call him a traitor and hate him and tell him to sleep in his own bed from now on, or _better yet, go find Terry and Lampard and go snuggle with them._  
  
But he doesn’t. Jamie just sighs and pushes himself closer to Stevie, holds him a little tighter. _Tell me before you go?_ he asks, _If you decide to go, that is. I’d rather hear it from you than the morning papers._ And it’s such a small request that Stevie nods his head, and pushes himself closer to Jamie’s neck.  
  
Jamie sighs because he knows that his Stevie— _not his, not his_ —deserves more than Liverpool’s been giving him. Sighs because he wants Stevie to stay, and he wants Stevie to succeed, and now Stevie has to choose one or the other, and he can’t find it in him to begrudge him the choice.  
  
Sighs because— _Love you, J. You-too, you-too, you-too_. He catches Stevie’s hand in his one day, after he gives him his morning cup of tea, and brushes his mouth against Stevie’s knuckles.  
  
_What’d you do that for?_ Stevie asks, eyes bright and warm—and they haven’t been that way in _so long_ , because this decision has weighed on him, weighed heavy, heavy, heavy, Jamie knows it has, has seen it in the bags under Stevie’s too-young eyes, in the lines on Stevie’s too-young forehead, the ones he traces with his eyes in the moonlight when Stevie is asleep and he is awake.  
  
_Just ‘cause,_ Jamie says. Just because. Because _you-too, you-too, you-too…_ Words he still hasn’t said out loud.  
  
They lose to Portugal. Jamie does nothing but sit on the bench the whole tournament, coming on just once for an injured Gary Neville—it’s the first time Neville’s been too exhausted to hate his Scouse guts, Jamie thinks. Stevie plays, but he gets pulled off in the sixty-fifth minute against Portugal, and they lose on penalties, 6-5.  
  
Michael is there too. He scores. It doesn’t change anything in the end, his goal the difference between losing on penalties and losing in normal time.  
  
Jamie thinks, in that secret part of him that he doesn’t share with anyone, that Stevie would have made it 6-6, and then maybe they...  
  
Well, it doesn’t matter now. There’s no point to it.  
  
Jamie sits beside Stevie on the way home, watches the clouds pass by the window as Stevie sleeps, head against Jamie’s shoulder.  
  
_You’re bony_ , he’d said the first time he’d rested his head there, poking at the joint between Jamie’s shoulder blade and his collarbone. _Proper bony little bastard_ , he’d said. Jamie had laughed. _Find someone else to use as your pillow, then._ Jamie’d said. _Don’t want anyone else_ , Stevie had said with his characteristic sincerity, and Jamie’s heart had warmed. _Go to sleep, you ridiculous boy,_ he’d said, voice terribly fond.  
  
Michael is across the aisle. He looks at Jamie now and then, spends most of his time reading a book. His brow is furrowed. He looks at Jamie, then looks away when Jamie catches his eye.  
  
Jamie sees the tension in his shoulders and thinks he’s still upset about their exit from the tournament.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie had thought he was above begging, had thought himself too proud.
> 
> He’d been wrong.

There are rumors, that summer, that Michael’s being courted by Real Madrid. Jamie knows it’s just bullshit, just the same sort of nonsense that the press comes up with every year.  
  
Until the papers reporting it get more reputable, and he starts recognizing the names of the journalists, knows them to be good, honorable men.  
  
Until Michael drops by his place one day with a six-pack of beer and bags under his eyes and tells him it’s true, tells him he’s considering it.  
  
Jamie had thought he was above begging, had thought himself too proud.  
  
He’d been wrong.  
  
Beg he did, beg and plead and appeal to Michael’s love, of club and city and team and _him_ , a decade and a half strong.  
  
_We’ll win—we’ll sign some new players, and with you and me and Stevie, we’ll win! We’ll win it all, if you stay. Just stay. Give us a chance to prove that we deserve you._  
  
He pulls out the big guns, because a man powered by fear is not bound by honor.  
  
Jamie Carragher is not a good man. But then again, he never said he was.  
  
_I thought you loved me._  
  
Michael rears back like he’s been slapped.  
  
_I do,_ he admits. _That’s part of the problem._  
  
_If you love me, then stay_ , Carra commands. _Stay and earn me_ , he orders, as if he’s ever going to love anyone but the brown-eyed kid who kisses like a dream. He never says that he loves Michael back. He may be desperate, but he’s not a liar.  
  
_The thought of leaving hurts_ , Michael whispers. _But it doesn’t hurt as much as the thought of staying does._  
  
Carra’s face turns to stone. He wipes a hand over his eyes, drags it down over the straight nose, that mouth Michael’s been dreaming of for years, the stubborn, defiant chin, as if physically wiping away the hurt from Michael’s words.  
  
_If the thought of staying at home, fighting for the team you’ve loved since you could talk, with the friends you’ve had since you were what, eleven? twelve? If the thought of that hurts you so damn much, then go. We don’t need you._  
  
Michael comes closer _. I love you, Carra, I do, I have, for years now._ He leans forward, desperate to touch, just one more touch. Carra looks at him, and then looks away, but he doesn’t leave.  
  
_Then why are you leaving?_  
  
_I just—_  
  
_Then why are you leaving, Michael?_  
  
Michael is silent.  
  
_Guess you don’t love me enough to answer the question._ Jamie says, laughing bitterly. Twenty-six year old laughter shouldn’t sound that bitter. Not when it’s falling out of a mouth that was made to smile, made to laugh. A mouth like the one on James Lee Duncan Carragher.  
  
Michael leans forward, places his hand gently in Carra’s hair. He pulls him in, presses his lips against Jamie’s _. Just this once,_ he thinks _, just this once._  
  
Carra is soft under his fingers, soft hair under one hand, soft skin under the other.  
  
Carra kisses back, doesn't feel those old sparks, but doesn't care, because he feels completely and utterly secure. He knows Michael will never hurt him. Not if he stays.  
  
_You could stay, Mickey. You could stay with me._ It’s Carra, his voice low and promising and pleading and it’s everything he’s dreamed of for the past decade. It’s Carra, his perfect, beautiful, remarkable Carra, who he’s loved since he was fifteen, who has that scar a couple inches above his elbow from the time he’d been running and he’d fallen and an exposed nail had caught at his arm and _ripped_ —  
  
—He’d bled and _bled_ , and ran to Michael’s house because it was closer, and maybe for another reason but Michael will never know that now, and Michael had cleaned him up and wrapped a bandage around his arm and he had bent his head and kissed the spot.  
_All better?_ He’d asked, laughing _._ Carra hadn’t laughed, had just looked at him, quiet and serious in the way his Carra got sometimes. _Thanks to you it is, Michael_.

  
Michael remembers a strange softness in his eyes. Had that really been there, or had he made it up? Had he had the opportunity and given it away? Does Carra remember? Does he remember that still? Suddenly it’s crucial that Michael know, Michael has to _know_ and he’s terrified of finding out, because what if he doesn’t?—  
  
—and why is life so wretchedly unfair? Maybe if he had just told him _then_ , maybe Stevie wouldn’t have mattered.  
  
_Do you love me, Jamie Carragher?_ He asks _. Do you love me, right now, right at this moment?_  
  
_I could learn,_ Jamie offers, with wide, vulnerable eyes _. I could try. I would try for you, Mickey Mouse._  
  
Michael smiles at him, and it’s horrible, wretched, the smile of the damned _. You couldn’t. Not really. Not when you belong to someone else._  
  
He stands up, and bends down to kiss Jamie’s cheek _. I’ll miss you, Jamie._  
  
He leaves Jamie sitting there, staring at the space where his body used to be.  
  
He turns back. _Carra?_ Jamie looks up, eyes half-mad with hope. It would be so easy to stay. It was always easy to stay with Jamie, but easy had passed Michael by years ago, the moment he’d looked away from Jamie, sat in his bathroom with bloody gauze on the counter, and asked him if he was hungry.  
  
_Do you remember that time you cut your arm and came to mine and I fixed you up?_  
  
Jamie’s other hand reaches, fingers gentle on the spot, just as Michael’s had been on that other day, years ago.  
  
_All better_. Jamie says quietly. _Thanks to you, Michael_. _I remember_. Michael chokes out an empty goodbye and flees the house.  
  
Jamie gets up and goes to the bathroom, and Michael sits in his car in Jamie’s driveway. His whole body aches for Jamie’s touch, for a hug goodbye, for another kiss, and another, and another. He leans his forehead on the steering wheel for a few minutes before lifting his head, wiping his eyes, and calling his agent, who’s kind enough not to comment on his wet voice or the fact that he sounds like he’s signing his own death warrant when he’s actually signing for the biggest club in the world.  
  
Jamie sits on the floor of the bathroom, back to the door, and cries harder than he has since he was eight, when he broke his arm in two places.  
  
He hadn’t known until now that friends, too, could break your heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for breaking everyone's hearts! (I blame Michael Owen.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His name is Xabier Alonso, and he's all the things Jamie isn't. Jamie doesn't want to get in the way, so he removes himself a little, as much as he can stand. 
> 
> The 2005 League Cup Final is against Chelsea, and it breaks a lot of hearts, but Jamie only cares about one (maybe two, if you count his own).

In the end, Jamie knows that Michael wants more than Liverpool can give him. Jamie wants Michael to stay, and wants Michael to be successful, but mostly he wants him to _stay_. Michael evidently doesn’t feel the same way.  
  
Jamie knows that he’s a hypocrite, a foolish, love-struck hypocrite, and a selfish one at that, and he doesn’t care.  
  
On August 13, 2004, the papers announce that Michael Owen, the Kop’s own Scouse son, is leaving Liverpool for sunny, sunny Spain.  
  
Jamie hates Spain and he hates Michael for leaving them behind.  
  
Well, he tries. Michael calls him before he leaves.  
  
 _I’m sorry, Carra. I still—I do love you, still. I’m so, so sorry._  
  
(It’s hard to hate your best friend.)  
  
So Jamie tries to just not care, because that’s worked well enough in the past.  
  
(It doesn’t this time.)  
  
  
Houllier goes, and Benitez comes in.  
  
Jamie doesn’t care, not as much as he thinks he should. Gérard was practically a second father to him, after all. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing does, really, because Michael’s left him, yes, but Stevie is staying. They could bring his fat Uncle Tom in to manage the club, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, and he wouldn’t have protested, too busy being caught up in the joy of _Stevie’s staying, Stevie’s staying, Stevie’s staying_. ( _You-too, you-too, you-too_ , whispers his heart, his foolish, love-struck, hypocritical heart).  
  
Benitez is exciting. He signs two Spaniards, Xabi Alonso and Luis Garcia. He switches Jamie from left-back to the heart of defense. He feels good about the change, better because Sami’s his centre-back partner.  
  
The Spaniards are both good lads, technically gifted, and Jamie lets himself hope for something. He doesn’t put words to it, but he hopes for himself, hopes for Stevie, hopes for their team and their city.  
  
Jamie likes Xabi. Quite a lot, actually. He’s a really good man, and they get on well. But Stevie _loves_  him. Their chemistry is electric, on and off the pitch. The first time they train together, Xabi threads a forty-yard pass, and it lands inch-perfect at Stevie’s feet. His eyes light up, and he grins challengingly as he sends one fifty yards a few minutes later. Xabi grins back, accepting the challenge.

They do three-person drills together, Jamie and Stevie and Xabi. When they break off into pairs, Jamie stays with Stevie, and sees the way Stevie looks at Xabi, who goes off to Luis Garcia. _Oh_ , he thinks to himself. The next day, when they switch from three-man drills to partner drills, he quietly excuses himself. He finds Sami looking at him with softness and understanding in his eyes, and they stretch together. He’s smarter than he looks, their big Finn, knows more than he lets on.  
  
And off the pitch? Even off the pitch, Xabi and Stevie just seem to tune in to the same frequency. Jamie doesn’t mind, because he hits it off with Xabi, too. He’s a quiet, intelligent man, but he isn’t too timid to shout at Carra or argue with him over football. He carries books around, reads philosophy, quotes poetry now and then, Marquez and Neruda and Rumi. Stevie hangs on his every word like a love-struck schoolboy.  
  
It’s not one-sided, either. Stevie is a miracle on skinny Scouse legs, and he’s a young man still to wear the responsibility that comes with the armband. He exudes this irresistible magnetism, this unassuming charm. Worst of all, he seems truly unaware of the power he holds over people.  
  
But Xabi is anything _but_  unaware. Jamie can see the curiosity in his eyes, the desire to get inside Stevie’s head and break him down and read him and understand how each little part of him functions to make up this incredible person. That curiosity softens, over time, grows warmer and sweeter and more affectionate, and he grows more sensitive in his handling of Stevie. Jamie approves of the shift, thinks secretly that it’ll keep Stevie safe from heartbreak.  
  
It comes down to this. Xabi makes Stevie happy, and Jamie loves Xabi for that, because Stevie— _not his, not his, never-ever-ever-his_ —deserves to be happy.  
  
This newly developed capacity to be happy for the two of them helps soothe the pain that flares in his chest when Stevie sits next to Xabi on the team bus. Jamie smiles and ruffles Stevie’s hair as he walks past them, earning that smile he’s missed having for himself.  
  
He ends up sitting down next to Sami, who is always sympathetic, always, _always_ sympathetic, even when Jamie doesn’t want it. Especially then.  
  
There’s a game against Chelsea on New Year’s Day. Lamps goes in hard on Xabi, and Jamie can tell by the look on his face that it’s not good.  
  
He watches him hop off the field, each arm wrapped around the shoulders of a medic for support. Jamie feels a surge of intense rage. He knows, or some part of him does, that Lampard isn’t a bad guy. He’s nice enough when they’re all together for England. Jamie knows that he’s Redders’ cousin, and Jamie loves Redders, has always loved Redders and will always love Redders, still remembers the warmth of him, the safety of him, the kindness of him.  
   
But Xabi’s handsome face is twisted with pain, and Stevie looks distraught. Lampard goes down hard the next time he tries to take Jamie on. He makes sure it’s outside the box, makes sure the free kick won’t be in a great position, and then just leaves a little extra in the challenge. He offers his hand to help Lampard up. _Fair play_ , Lampard mutters, to his credit. _He’s yours, I get it_. Jamie doesn’t bother correcting him, but he knows. _No, he’s not,_ Jamie thinks _. He’s Stevie’s, and I’m Stevie’s, too_.  
   
It turns out Xabi’s broken his ankle. He’s out for three months. Stevie and Carra show up on his doorstep one day, bringing smiles and a six-pack of beer. Jamie’s hands are jammed in the pockets of his loose-fitting jeans as they stand on the doorstep, making casual small talk. Xabi looks wearier as they talk, leans more heavily on the crutches, and Jamie steps forward, puts a hand on his shoulder. _Shall we sit down?_ Xabi smiles at him and nods. Stevie is beaming at him.  
   
They sit on either side of him. Xabi props his broken ankle up on Stevie’s leg, and leans into Carra’s shoulder. They watch Spurs play United. Xabi and Carra bicker amiably over tactics and formations, and Stevie falls asleep against Xabi’s shoulder.  
  
Xabi stays in Liverpool while the team travels to Greece. Jamie and Stevie are sharing a room again.  
  
They still sleep in the same bed, but there is less conversation, and more of it’s about Xabi. Jamie wakes up first, and Stevie is wrapped around him, in the way that had at some point become usual for the two of them. He disentangles himself and gets up for a shower, ignoring Stevie’s sleep-drenched voice calling to him, _come back to bed, J, let’s sleep a bit more_.  
  
Even as he walks away, Jamie’s heart begs. _You-too, you-too, you-too_.  
  
 _We can’t_ , says Jamie, _we’ve got breakfast in half an hour_. It only takes Jamie five minutes to get ready, and it takes Stevie eight, all told, two of which are spent trying to coerce Jamie into coming back to bed.  
He looks crossly at Jamie. _I_ told _you we had more time._  
 _Sorry, Stevie, didn’t wanna sleep through it and be late._  
  
Jamie finds a new thought circling his head, responding with bone-deep certainty to the worn-out memory of a whisper. _He doesn’t. Not anymore. Not anymore._  
  
Still, Stevie wakes up first most days and makes the tea, sweeter for him and obscenely milky for Jamie. He still takes four and a half minutes in the shower. He still listens to a half-asleep Jamie tell him his dreams with a patient half-smile on his face.  
  
Stevie scores an absolute belter against Olympiakos that day. Finnan and Kewell are the first ones by his side, but Jamie’s right behind them, having sprinted all the way up from the back line. He wraps his arms around Stevie as they’re propelled forward, into the crowd, more teammates arriving at Jamie’s back, and Jamie’s arms tight around Stevie, holding on, holding on, refusing, this time, to let go.  
  
In the heat of the moment, he presses his lips to Stevie’s neck, quickly, _quickly_ , in the rush of people surrounding them. Still, Stevie notices, and when he turns around, he hugs Jamie first and longest and holds him harder than the teammates that come after. But of course that’s just because Xabi isn’t there.  
  
Xabi watches that match from home, and he lets out a shout when Stevie does it. _Te amo, Stevie!_ He shouts. It’s the first time he’s said the words. They come easier in Spanish, when they’re hundreds of miles apart.  
  
Bayer Leverkusen is next. The first leg is at home, and of the three of them, only Jamie sees the pitch, with Stevie suspended and in the stands, and Xabi injured and sat right beside him. Luis scores the first goal, bless him, and then Riise gets one, and then Didi puts the final one past the German keeper in stoppage time.  
  
Between the first and second legs, they have the League Cup Final, against Chelsea. They’re up one-nil. Brilliant, glorious, fantastic, another trophy, Jamie’s nearly dizzy with the thought of it, even though he tries to shove it away, tries not to think about it at all… Stevie is so beautiful on the pitch, armband round his bicep, it takes his breath away. He tries not to think about that, either.  
  
Stevie scores an own goal in the seventy-fourth minute. Jamie pulls him close, whispers _it’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll just score another._  
  
(They don’t.)  
  
The match goes to extra time. Drogba beats Jamie in the first minute of the second half, slots it neatly past Jerzy. They concede again four minutes later. Stevie launches a free-kick, Nuñez heads it in, and _Jamie_ _loves him, loves him, loves him_.  
  
If they’d had a bit more time, it might have been enough.  
  
(They don’t. It isn’t.)  
  
Stevie doesn’t have the luxury of sulking. He’s the captain. And they still have other competitions left. He stands and delivers a beautiful talk, filled to the brim with belief and energy and optimism and _don’t you dare think we’re done, we’re nowhere near done yet_. The exhaustion settles round him when he sits down again, after that talk.  
  
When he sits next to Jamie on the coach, he fakes sleep, denying himself the customary comfort of Jamie’s shoulder in favor of leaning his face against the cold glass. Jamie lets him, for a moment, then pulls him onto his shoulder and wraps an arm round his neck. He presses a kiss to that soft brown hair. The coach ride may be silent, but at least it’s warm.  
  
They don’t talk about it until that night, in bed in a London hotel. _It wasn’t your fault,_ Jamie whispers. Stevie won’t even touch him—he’s on the far side of the bed, as far as he can be without falling onto the floor. He hears Stevie sniffing, feels the blankets move as he rubs at his face, and realizes with a sinking feeling that he’s crying, that his poor Stevie is crying. His poor, strong, beautiful, incandescent Stevie is _crying_. Captains don’t cry, but then again Stevie was never just Jamie’s captain.  
  
 _Shhh_ , he says, reaching out and finding Stevie’s arm. He tugs on it, gently, coaxes Stevie towards him, moves towards him to make up the gap until they’re pressed close together, somewhere just past the middle on Stevie’s side. _Come here, Stevie, come here_. He wraps his arms around him.

  
_It wasn’t your fault._

  
_It was, it was_. Stevie says, voice cracked and broken in a million places. Jamie feels his tears on his neck.

  
 _It wasn’t_ , he says again, running a hand soothingly through Stevie’s hair, over and over and over again. _It wasn’t_.

  
_If I had just made that clearance…_

  
_No, it was_ my _fault_ , Jamie says clearly.

  
_What? No, it wasn’t, you were good today, you were fine._

  
_Drogba got past me,_ Jamie says. _Drogba got past me and he scored a goal. We were tied before that, could’ve still made it to pens. So it’s my fault, right?_

  
Stevie pulls away, lifts up his head to look Jamie in the eyes. _No, J, it wasn’t!_ He says earnestly.

  
 _No, it wasn’t_ , Jamie agrees easily _. No more than it was yours_. _There are eleven men on the pitch. It’s not a game of individuals, and you know that._

  
_But—_

_Hush, Stevie, respect your elders._

Stevie chuckles wetly. _Okay, J. Okay, old man_.

Jamie is gentle when he cuffs him on the back of the head, the sting of it lost when he resumes stroking Stevie’s hair.

_Go to sleep, Stevie._

_Okay, Jamie._

Stevie falls asleep, the deep, heavy sleep that comes so easy after heartbroken tears dampen the pillowcase, in this case Jamie’s shirt.  
  
Jamie stays awake longer. It’s this moment when he realizes what it is that he’s meant to do. It is the captain’s job to look after the team. It is Jamie’s job to look after Stevie. It had been before his boy got the armband, and it would be until the day he retired.  
  
( _Unless Stevie leaves_ , he thinks, because the worst case scenario always plays in his mind, and maybe he will, _maybe he will_ , if Madrid came calling, and surely they would, for who wouldn’t want Stevie, who wouldn’t want a brilliant, beautiful boy like the one whose breath beat against Jamie’s neck? Madrid had already taken Michael from him, had already taken the boy who loved him, what was stopping them from taking the boy he loved, too? _Please_ , Jamie begs, _please don’t take him away from me_.  
  
 _Stop thinking, Carragher_ , he tells himself, inner voice rough like his toughest youth coaches. _Stop thinking so much, it’s going to be the end of you._

_The end of you._

_The end of us._

_The end, the end, the end._

It will come one day, the end, and Jamie is afraid.

 

He holds Stevie tighter. Always, _always_ he wants to hold Stevie tighter.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie will never say it out loud, but the miracle of Istanbul isn’t the result. It isn’t the cup, or the title. It’s the man in front of him. Only Jamie knows, and he will carry the secret to his grave.

They don’t linger long. They can’t. They have Champions League still. The second leg of the round of sixteen is in Germany. Xabi stays home, still injured. Stevie travels with the team, though, and he and Jamie share a room as they always do. That night, when Stevie is drifting off, Jamie wonders if he’s gotten too used to the boy, if he needs him too much. _He isn’t a boy anymore_ , he reminds himself. _Neither of us are_.  
  
_I love him_ , he confesses to himself. _I don’t know how not to love him._  
  
They win the second leg, too, with two goals from Lucho and one from Milan Baros.  
  
Stevie is injured for the first leg of the Champions League quarter finals. He sits with Xabi in the stands at Anfield. They win. Stevie and Xabi come down to the dressing room afterwards, elegant and suave in their suits and ties. The lads are all sweaty and disgusting and in various states of undress. They go round and hug every single player anyway, saving Jamie for last.  
  
When the second leg rolls around, they fly to Italy. Xabi’s fit again. Stevie’s not, and so he stays home. Xabi sits next to Jamie on the plane, though he’s rooming with Lucho. They talk about football books, discuss their old heroes and their signature styles and Xabi tells Carra about Sociedad and Carra tells Xabi about growing up in Bootle.

They don’t talk about Stevie, even though the idea of him is heavy in every conversation—

 _What were you like when you were younger,_ Xabi asks, and Carra wants to say _reckless and brave and I got to be kissed by Stevie._

 _What was Bootle like_ , Xabi asks, and Carra wants to reply with how far away it is from Huyton, how he and Stevie had similar childhoods, in all the ways that mattered.

 _Who is your footballing hero_ , Xabi asks, and Carra wants to say _Jamie Redknapp, because he knows I love Stevie and he took care of us and loved us_.  
  
That night Stevie sleeps in Liverpool and Jamie lies awake and alone in a hotel room in Italy. He’s restless. The game is looming large in his mind, and he can’t stop considering Juventus’ potential lineups, the way their attackers like to link up, where to position himself to interfere with their buildup play. He tosses and turns most of the night, and wakes feeling more tired than when he laid down. It’s not ideal, for matchday.  
  
It’s not ideal, but it’s enough. They do enough, and Jamie’s never been so happy for a nil-nil draw— _the nothing result_ , he used to call it when he was younger, but now it feels like everything.  
  
Then it’s Chelsea. They’re out for blood after the League Cup final, especially Stevie, who still remembers the horror of that own goal, and especially Jamie who still remembers the feeling of Stevie’s tears against his skin. They pull out a nil-nil at Stamford Bridge, which would be brilliant if Xabi hadn’t earned himself a suspension while they were at it. It’s unfair, the Chelsea player clearly dived. Jamie hates him and hates Chelsea for it. Stevie has his hands on Xabi’s shoulders. _We’ll win it for you, Xabs_ , he says, _trust us_. And Xabi says _I do, Stevie, I do._ And Jamie smiles and tells him, _don’t worry, Xabi, you just rest up for the final, mate. We’ll get you there._  
  
Jamie is a man of his word, and Anfield is a fortress. It doesn’t take much, just one goal from Lucho in the fourth minutes and then the most efficient bus parking job Jamie’s ever been part of. Jamie hates it, hates the pressure it puts on him and Sami, but he grits his teeth and gets on with it, and that’s all they need.  
  
_See?_ Stevie says to Xabi, _I promised you we’d win it for you, didn’t I?_  
_You did, you did, I’ll never doubt you again._  
  
Jamie smiles and walks away from the pair of them, heads into the showers, and tries to ease the ache from his legs.  
  
And then it’s Istanbul. The city is beautiful, Jamie thinks, flowers and cool breezes and the shimmering river running like silk across the land, and Jamie thinks he could spend months here, exploring this place. But that’s not what this trip is for.  
  
As far as Liverpool Football Club are concerned, Istanbul is for one thing, and one thing only. The Champions League final.  
  
Istanbul is Stevie wrapped around him, clinging hard in the almost-darkness of the city lights, dimmed by the gauzy curtains at the window. They speak for hours because sleep isn’t easy to come by, not before the most important day of their lives. Istanbul is Jamie holding Stevie, thinking that at least he gets to have this. At least he gets to hold Stevie.  
  
Istanbul is heartbreak at halftime. Istanbul is the voices of the fans, so strong they make their way through the stone and past the brick and around the mortar into the dressing rooms. Istanbul is Stevie, giving instructions during halftime and leading by example on the pitch. Jamie would follow him anywhere.  
  
Istanbul is Stevie, stealing the breath from Jamie’s lungs as the world watches the curve of the ball, sees the way the net yields instantly, and standing in silence for a fraction of a second before the blood in his veins is replaced with fire.  
  
Istanbul is Smicer, getting in a shot from twenty-five yards, and Dida, somehow failing to save it, Jamie’s heart hammering, hammering, hammering, until he sees it cross the line and he loves Vladimir Smicer more than he’s ever loved any man alive ( _except—not now, please, not now_ ).  
  
Istanbul is Xabi, putting away the penalty, just as Jamie knew he would. The penalty that Stevie earned for them by taking the hit, landing heavy, but standing again, strong as ever.  
  
Istanbul is Jamie, throwing himself around even though the air in the stadium fled long ago, and his muscles have gone from burning to numb to cramping. Istanbul is Stevie, sprinting over to stretch him out, somehow more beautiful than he’s ever been before, somehow more _everything_ than he’s ever been before, this magnificent demigod whispering encouragement beneath the stars Jamie can’t see through the glaring floodlights.  
  
Istanbul is not fearing the ball, welcoming the way it slams into his chest, his legs, not turning his face even if it means his nose might be crooked tomorrow. Istanbul is Jerzy, solid at his back, saving shots, saving goals, saving them, saving their hopes and dreams and oh, how Jamie loves Jerzy, more than Smicer, more than anyone ( _except—not now, please, not yet, I’m begging you, not yet, I can’t, I_ can’t _—)._  
  
Istanbul is penalties. Istanbul is a flash of memory in his head, the grainy image of a green shirt on the television, grabbing Jerzy by the collar, whispering frantically to him about another man, another keeper, and what he had done to win for Liverpool, how he had played with the strikers’ minds like a boy doing keepy-ups, and then shoving him away with a fervent _good luck_.  
  
Istanbul is watching, heart in mouth, heart in outstretched hand, every nerve screaming at the world to _take it, take it, please, I don’t want it anymore_ …  
  
And then  
  
_Give it back, give it back, please, I need it, life isn’t worth living without this beating in my chest and reminding me that I’m alive_.  
  
Istanbul is red, breathtakingly, beautifully bloody, the color of a man’s still-beating heart, the color of Jamie’s soul, red.  
  
  
Istanbul is Xabi kissing Stevie, quick and sweet under the stadium lights. Istanbul is a party the likes of which Jamie’s never seen before. They all kiss Stevie that night, their captain, their treasure, their everything, Jamie’s everything, pecked on cheek and hair and forehead dozens of times by little old ladies and pretty young girls and laughing young men, even by smiling, beaming children who grab at his hand because it’s as far as they can reach, and press it to their smiling, beaming lips. Stevie’s hand, firmly shaken by an endless line of older men, too reserved to kiss him, even though they probably want to.  
  
Jamie kisses Stevie too, and that moment alone is clear amongst the haze of drinks to drink and songs to sing. He remembers putting his hands on either side of Stevie’s face, pulling him down, pressing his lips gently to his forehead. Whispering to him, _Oh captain, my captain_ , and watching Stevie brush off the words as if they’re not the truest ones Jamie’s ever said.  
  
Still, Stevie clutches the back of his shirt, refuses to let go. _We did it, Jamie, we did it_ , he whispers, and reaches up to kiss Jamie’s cheek. _We did it, and you were immense_ , he whispers. A moment later, he is gone, and Jamie is dazed and younger than his twenty-seven years, and worst of all, he is impossibly, irrevocably, irretrievably in love. It’s been two years since he was last kissed by Steven Gerrard, and if he’d hoped that the feelings would go away, well, he’s been wrong before. (Not often, but it has happened.)  
  
Istanbul is Xabi leading Stevie into a dark corner, pressing his lips to Stevie’s. Istanbul is Stevie letting him, his body going soft, yielding under Xabi’s hands like the net bent for the ball when Xabi took the penalty as easily as he takes Stevie’s hands.  
  
Istanbul is Jamie sitting on a barstool, drunkenly singing _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ with three Spaniards because his captain is otherwise occupied and someone has to do it, and it has to be a Scouser, even if he isn’t quite sure why. Istanbul is Jamie, swaying as he sings _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ , even though he’s never felt more alone in his life.  
  
Istanbul is being drunk on beer and immense, inconceivable joy and trying to stifle the quiet irrepressible whisper of heartbreak. Istanbul is being happy for Stevie, happy for Xabi, who he loves (and hates, maybe, in the shadows of his mind, but still, _loves, loves, loves,_ for his own sake as well as Stevie’s) and not allowing himself to be sad on his own behalf. Istanbul is pure, pure bliss for his teammates, who deserve this, every single one of them.  
  
Istanbul is Stevie whispering into Xabi’s ear, pulling him out of the room, hauling the cup behind them.  
  
Istanbul is rueful smiles, finding Sami and his sad, knowing eyes, and throwing himself upon his mercy, and sleeping on his floor while Stevie and Xabi sleep in Jamie’s bed. Or don’t sleep. Jamie doesn’t know and he will never ask.  
  
_You-too, you-too, you-too_ , his heart protests feebly.  
  
_No_. Jamie says. _No more._  
  
  
He wakes up sore everywhere. Sore back from the night on the floor, sore head from the beers (he’d stopped counting after seven, half spilled in the chaos), dry mouth, eyes sore from the audacity of the sun—how dare it shine so bright?—stomach heaving and aching from hunger—he can’t remember dinner, only beer and more beer and ah, yes, more beer after that. And when he’s taking stock of his body, of all the places where he is sore, his mind recalls the image of Stevie and Xabi, holding hands, holding the cup, leaving Jamie behind, and his heart gives a quiet, poignant throb.  
  
Sami’s still snoring in the bed, so he gets ready quickly, wets his hair and runs his hand through it to make it lay flat, squeezes some toothpaste onto his finger and rubs it around his teeth before rinsing, splashing some water onto his face so he doesn’t look quite so much like death warmed over.  
  
His stomach grumbles, loud enough that he might well wake Sami if he hangs around here any longer, so he goes down to breakfast.  
  
There are only a handful of boys there, in various states of drunk and sober and horribly hungover. There are only a handful of boys, and to a man, they are panicking. _Where’s the cup, where’s the cup, holy fuck we’ve lost the Champions League trophy, when’s the last time you saw it, no I saw it then too, you idiot, we were all there, that’s it, I’m never drinking again._  
  
Stevie walks in to the room, Xabi trailing behind.  
  
Jamie clears his throat. _Stevie, do you know where the cup is?_  
  
_Yeah, it’s in me room, why?_  
  
There’s a sudden release of tension, like someone letting the air out of a balloon.  
  
_We thought we’d lost it_ , Riise says, letting out a sigh of relief. _Thought we’d have to parade around with a papier-mâché cup._  
  
_If it was good enough for Shankly, it’d be good enough for us_ , Stevie says, playfully stern. _But we won’t be needing it, lads_. Stevie is grinning, lighting up the room with his joy.  
  
Xabi is gazing at him, recognizing him for what Jamie has always known him to be. A miracle.  
  
Jamie will never say it out loud, but the miracle of Istanbul isn’t the result. It isn’t the cup, or the title. It’s the man in front of him. Only Jamie knows, and he will carry the secret to his grave.  
   
Stevie looks at Jamie, his smile fading a bit. _Where were you last night, J?_ He asks, voice low. Jamie chuckles and hopes Stevie won’t call him on how insincere it is.

_Got plastered and crashed on Sami’s floor._

_Okay, well, as long as you were okay. I worry, you know._

_I was fine, you shouldn’t worry about me._

Stevie avoids eye contact for a moment, and when he does look at Jamie, his eyes are a bit sad. _Can’t help it_ , he says simply, and walks towards the breakfast table, Xabi following behind.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You should tell him," Sami says in preseason training one day. 
> 
> "Tell him what?"
> 
> "That you love him."

_You should tell him_ , Sami says one day in preseason training, catching Jamie looking wistfully at Stevie and Xabi.  
  
 _Tell him what?_  
  
 _That you love him._

Jamie stills.  
  
 _No point to it_ , he says. Sami’s known for ages now, and denial at this point would be dishonest and disrespectful.  
  
 _Why do you say that?_ Sami asks. _He loves you too, you know._  
  
 _Maybe he did, once,_ Jamie admits, sounding older than his years. _Not anymore._

Sami frowns and presses a gentle hand to Jamie’s shoulder.  
  
 _He’d leave_ , Jamie whispers, turning away. _I don’t want him to go_.  
  
Sami’s eyes are soft. He smiles a little. _I don’t think he_ could _leave_ , he says kindly. _I don’t think he would know how._  
  
 _I don’t want to hold him back, either_ , Jamie says, _I don’t want him to stay just for me._ It’s a painful admission that Jamie is a good defender, yes, but Stevie is great, Stevie is world-class, and Stevie deserves the chance to leave if he wants to go, doesn’t deserve to spend his career chained to the sorry Bootle boy who loves him.  
  
Sami’s eyes fill with a horrible familiar pity.  
  
Jamie shrugs at him, and there is silence until Sami starts recounting his children’s recent misadventures, waiting until Jamie smiles again and stops looking quite so often at his captain.  
  
Stevie and Jamie both spend the summer in Liverpool. Xabi goes home for a few weeks, and so it’s just the two of them. Stevie hasn’t renewed his contract yet. Jamie doesn’t know what’s going on, exactly. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t have the heart to.  
  
He only brings it up once.  
  
 _Do you—do you remember what I asked you last summer?_  
  
 _No? What did you ask me?_  
  
 _If you decide to go, can you tell me? Before the papers? Please, Stevie, I don’t want to hear it from the papers this time._  
  
 _You have my word_ , Stevie says, and that’s all the reassurance Jamie needs _._  
  
Jamie would never try to sway Stevie one way or the other. He loves him. He still wants Stevie to stay, and he still wants him to succeed, and he will still leave the choice to Stevie.  
  
(Oh, and he’s still a love-struck fool. But he’s not as selfish as he used to be.)  
  
He does talk to Rafa though, and tells him in no uncertain terms that if the club are the ones holding it up, they’d better get their act together and offer him whatever he wants.  
  
 _What if he wants to go?_ asks Rafa as Jamie’s about to leave his office. Jamie turns back, looks over his shoulder.  
  
 _If he wants to go?_ Jamie asks. He sighs, suddenly looking old and worn. _If he wants to go, then we’ll have to let him go_.  
  
The words could have been callous, if the tone had been right. But Jamie Carragher just sounds resigned, sounds _heartbroken_ , and it sounds like _I’ll let him go if he wants to leave me_ , and Rafa Benitez wonders if there’s something between his captains he hasn’t quite seen yet.  
  
(There is, but Rafa shouldn’t blame himself too much. Neither of them sees it either, not in its entirety.)  
  
He gets a phone call from Michael in July.  
  
 _Does Rafa need another striker?_ he asks, sad and desperate.  
  
 _Garcia’s playing well_ , Jamie says, somehow managing to sound merciless even through the throbbing pain in his heart.  
  
 _I know_. Michael sounds miserable _. I made a mistake, Carra, please, I’m sorry, I lo—_  
  
Jamie hangs up.  
  
A few minutes later, the anger and the sadness and the _I miss you, I miss you, I miss you_ fades and the memories from childhood take over, the feeling of Michael in his arms after he’d scored a goal, after the FA Youth Cup, the way Michael said his name, the way Michael smiled at him, gentle, soft, loving.  
  
Jamie could have been loved. He could have been _loved_. He’s not in the habit of mourning over what could have been, but he indulges now and again. He thinks about Michael, thinks of those days they’d roomed together, wonders what might have… But of course, he’d never wish Stevie away. Not for himself, and not even for Michael. He’d never wish Stevie away.  
  
He’s far too selfish for that.  
  
He sends a text message. _I’m sorry, the call dropped_. _I’ll talk to Rafa_ , _see what he says_.  
  
When Michael calls back in a few days, Carra’s voice is heavy with regret as he tells him that Rafa said no, and Michael lets out a quiet sigh. _Thank you for trying, Carra. I’m going to try to get back to England,_ he says. _I miss you._  
  
 _Miss you too, Mickey. Good luck with everything._  
  
Jamie’s the one to hang up first. _I could have been loved,_ he says, out loud in the quiet of his house.  
  
Jamie closes his eyes and wishes that things could be easy. Wonders what happy endings taste like and half-remembers Stevie’s mouth, sparks in his stomach. Wishes for the happiest _realistic_ ending he could have hoped for, and remembers Michael’s, a warm, rough hand on his cheek.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've offered to give up the captaincy."
> 
> "You did what?"
> 
> (In which there is good news and bad news and good news again.)

One day, he wakes up. He sips at his cup of tea. Not enough milk, too much sugar, even though he’s the one who made it.  
  
(He realizes ten minutes later that he’s made it the way Stevie likes it, and that’s a strong contender for most pathetic thing he’s ever done, just behind begging Michael Owen to stay.)  
  
He reads the newspaper at the same time. He puts the teacup down. Rick Parry had said that Stevie would be leaving. The chief executive of the club had said that Steven Gerrard was leaving. _It seems pretty final_ , he had said.  
  
Jamie’s heart, swollen with love and scarred from the abuse, cracks a little bit. He roots around his head for some beautiful memories and wraps them around the broken places like gaffa tape, reminiscing alone at a table with a cup of tea that is slowly working its way to room temperature.  
  
But Jamie hasn’t heard from Stevie yet, and Stevie had _promised_. He spent the next day half-convinced that Stevie had forgotten all about his promise and was about to ship out to Spain, or Italy or, God forbid, _London_.  
  
He considers that last one the most. London. At least Stevie would still be around, right? At least he’d still see him. He tries to hold onto the positives—he wouldn’t lose Stevie entirely to Spain, and that’d be nice. That’d be good. Of course, it’d hurt, to have Stevie leave him, leave them for Chelsea, to see him in blue after years of seeing him in that classic red, how the badge had sat perfectly across his heart. He tries to imagine playing against him, and can’t. It would be easy enough with anyone else, tackles a little sharper, edged with resentment. Harsh words when the referee’s back was turned.  
  
But _Stevie_ … He’s spent too long protecting him to change now. He’d be a liability on the pitch against Stevie, if he’s honest.  
  
He thinks about seeing Stevie run and leap onto Terry’s back after a goal, and his throat tightens. _Please, no_ , he begs the universe. His mum is a devout Catholic, but he’s fallen into the habit of just begging the universe for things now and again. For Stevie to be okay, for him to recover and stay healthy. For him to stay.  
  
Despite all his misgivings and the image of Stevie as a happy Blue that refuses to leave his head, he’s still hopeful, somehow. He’s had faith in Stevie for years now, and he’ll honor his word—he always has.  
  
The next day, Jamie turns on the telly and hears within minutes that Stevie’s signed a new contract. He sits down abruptly, finds himself laughing delightedly. He doesn’t even know how worried he’s been until he stops. He feels lighter, his muscles feel looser, the sun seems brighter.  
  
Stevie calls him.  
  
 _Hi, Stevie_ , he says, and even he’s instantly aware of how stupidly cheerful his voice sounds, _just saw the news! I’m so glad—_  
  
Stevie takes a deep breath _._  
  
 _I’ve offered to give up the captaincy._  
  
Another long pause, where Jamie’s confused, because he knows all those words individually, but they don’t make any sense all put together like that. Not _his_  Stevie.  _(But he wasn’t his, anyway, not really. Shut up! Shut up!)_ His Stevie never gives up on anything, hasn’t given up on _him_ yet, the crotchety old Bootle boy who loves him.  
  
Stevie breathes again, slower and deeper than normal, and it’s creepy that Jamie knows that, right? That feels like a creepy thing to know about someone, even if that someone is your best friend in the world. Not important. Not important. The important thing is that Stevie just said that he was giving up the captaincy.  
  
 _I went in to see Rafa and offered to give you the armband_.

Jamie stills. The delight that had bubbled up inside him goes flat, like champagne that’s been sitting out too long.  
  
 _You did what?_ His voice is level, completely and unnervingly emotionless. It sends chills down Stevie’s spine.  
  
 _I offered to give it up_ , Stevie says again. _You’re better suited for it than I am._  
  
 _What—what did he say?_  
  
 _He said no, didn’t want the controversy._  
  
 _What the fuck were you thinking? Did you even ask me if I_ wanted _the damn armband?_  
  
 _Do you?_  
  
 _No! I want_ you _to have it! You’re a good captain, Stevie, a brilliant captain who pulled us through in Istanbul and a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times more. Stevie,_ Jamie sighs _. I don’t plan on serving under any other captain, you know. Myself included._  
  
 _They’re going to hate me,_ Stevie whispers _. The fans. They’ve been burning my shirts._ He sounds heartbroken, and Jamie hates the assholes who dared to do that to his boy, to his Stevie, when he’d done more for the club in one year than they had in their entire lives. _They’re going to hate me._  
  
( _I’ll protect you from them. Every single one. I’ll protect you. Nobody’s going to hurt you as long as I’m still breathing_ , Jamie thinks, fire thrumming through his veins at the thought of anyone, _anyone_ hating his Stevie.)  
  
 _No, they won’t,_ Jamie says _, and if they do, they can fuck off._  
  
Stevie draws in a breath to protest—he’s never heard anyone talk about the fans that way.  
  
 _I mean it. They hated me every other week for years, which is another reason I shouldn’t get the armband, by the way. Look, Stevie. I—_ we _love you._ The words are too close, too close to what he means. He coughs _. The team loves you. We need you to wear the armband._ I _need you to wear the armband._  
  
There’s a moment of silence. There are a lot of silent moments between the two of them, but Stevie doesn’t mind.  
  
 _Really?_ Stevie asks, when it feels right to let the silence fall away.  
  
 _Yeah, Steve, really._  
  
 _Will you help me?_  
  
 _Always._  
  
 _J?_  
  
 _Hmm?_  
  
 _Love you too,_ Stevie says, right before he hangs up.  
  
His heart is pounding. He’s said it, he’s said it. He thinks of Jamie, of Jamie’s smile, of Jamie’s eyes, how they look in the dim orange light floating softly through hotel windows, of Jamie stumbling over his words the way he does sometimes. _I—_ we _love you, Stevie_. He smiles and smiles and thinks he may never stop.  
  
  
Jamie sets the phone down slowly. Stevie’s said it—not asleep, not a whisper, not while they were in bed together and the world was softer. He had said it. Just now. Wide awake, and over the phone, each of them in their own houses. That whisper from so many years ago is so well-worn now, round at the edges from being played again and again in Jamie’s head. But he has a new one now, to replace it with. _Love you too. Love you too, love you too, love you too_.  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks—one of them must, surely.  
  
 _Maybe he doesn’t mean it that way_ , he thinks. _No_ , he thinks, remembering Xabi, remembering the dark corner during the celebration party in Istanbul. _No, he doesn’t mean it_ that _way_.

Still, the words play themselves back in his head, over and over and over.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's in love with you."
> 
> Robbie Fowler's never been much of a bullshitter.

The 2005/2006 season starts. During training, Stevie is reverting to old habits, tagging along behind Jamie some days. He wears his heart on his sleeve, he always has, and Jamie knows that. Somehow he still manages to miss the obvious affection Stevie’s showing him, the way he’s somehow always the one who gets jumped on or kissed or hugged the most after Stevie inevitably scores another goal.  
  
He wonders why it isn’t Xabi, or someone else, someone involved in the attacking side of the game. Wonders why Stevie would bother running over to him, some twenty, thirty yards away. Wonders why Stevie bothers with him at all, actually, and then feels bad, because the-boy-that’s-not-his is as loyal as they come, and he should be grateful for it, really.  
  
Some days, when they switch from trios to pairs, Xabi ducks out before Jamie has a chance, finds Lucho or someone else, while Jamie stares after him, wondering what’s changed when he wasn’t looking. Other times, it is Jamie who finds Sami and stretches, but without the looks of sympathy. He figures Sami’s just getting better at schooling his expression—he really had been getting tired of the pity.  
  
The pair of them, Xabi and Stevie, that is, still find each other on the pitch, though, most of the time. Stevie scores more goals than most of the strikers in the league. Jamie’s so proud of him it makes his chest ache.  
  
They lose in the Champions League. They don’t even make the quarters. It’s Benfica in the Round of 16, and they might have been a bit overconfident after beating Milan last year, and Benfica are no Milan, certainly, but they are second best on the day, and so they get what they deserve, as far as Jamie can tell.  
  
Robbie comes back though, in January. There are banners all over the Kop— _God—Number Eleven, Welcome Back to Heaven._  
  
It’s great, having him back, Jamie thinks. Brilliant. But… it does feel quite odd. He came up with Robbie, Robbie saw him when he was first starting out, when he was just a boy trying to figure out a man’s game, and Stevie had been even younger. He’d been there for the morning after their first kiss, when Stevie’d left him with those two little love-bites. He’d teased Jamie about the girl who’d given them to him, had laughed at Stevie’s defense of his friend, not knowing that it was just as much self-defense as loyalty.  
  
He’d left just a couple of weeks later, though, and had missed Stevie getting the captaincy, Jamie the vice-captaincy. He’d missed the growing up they’d had to do—the way they took care of each other and loved each other and made each other stronger and built each other up. He’d missed the way Jamie had gradually fallen a little harder for Stevie each day. He’d been at Istanbul, but in the crowd—even if he’d snuck into the team party to congratulate them. He hadn’t seen Stevie at half-time, hadn’t seen how Jamie looked at Stevie. He’d missed them growing up together.  
  
And Robbie isn’t a bullshitter. Never has been. He’ll notice Jamie’s crush on Stevie from a mile away, just as fast as he’ll notice that Stevie was head over heels for Xabi Alonso and has apparently forgotten that Jamie even existed.  
  
(Okay, he hasn’t. Especially not now, when they're almost back to the way they were pre-Xabi. That’s just Jamie being petty. But hey—he’s allowed to be petty now and again.)  
  
It only takes a week of Robbie being back in training for him to call Jamie on it.  
  
 _He’s in love with you_ , he says to Jamie one day as they’re stretching together. Jamie’s been trying to be a little more careful since he got back. He’s been leaving their three-person group first, with the excuse of catching up with Robbie, though God (or Fowler, as they call him in this city) knows that won’t last long.  
  
 _Be more specific, Rob. I’ve got lots of people in love with me._  
  
Robbie rolls his eyes. _Your best mate. Our baby boy turned captain. He’s in love with you._  
  
And this… isn’t what Jamie had expected. _No, he’s not. It’s Alonso for him—you’ve seen how they link up on the pitch._  
  
 _I have seen that. But I’ve also seen how the boy looks at you, little J, like you hung the moon just for him._  
  
 _That’s bullshit, Rob. I care about him_ , Jamie confesses. _I care about him, a lot. And maybe **I** feel that way, and maybe he did too, once, a little boy crush on someone who was nice to him, but he doesn’t anymore. He’s not a kid anymore._  
  
 _I know what I’m seeing, Jamie. You’re better at hiding it than he is. He’s smitten, completely. Dunno what he sees in you, but he is. And if you feel the same way about him… There’s no reason you both can’t be happy together, lad._  
  
 _I appreciate you telling me this, Rob. But I’ve seen them together. I’ve seen them… **together**. And I’ve seen the way he looks at Xabi, and Xabi’s hard not to fall in love with, you’ve got to admit, mate_. Jamie sighs and pulls out the big guns. _I’ve been here the whole time. I stayed and I think I know Stevie a bit better than you do._  
  
Robbie shrugs his shoulders. _He loves you, Jamie. And you love him. And if you refuse to take your head out of your ass, you’ll break his heart, and your own in the bargain._  
  
That’s the end of stretching, which leaves Jamie with no opportunity to express the sudden rush of anger he feels. How dare he say that? When Stevie comes first, when Jamie has always put Stevie first, put him above Michael, put him above Jamie himself whenever necessary. He’d known for a long time that he was letting himself hurt over Stevie, but hurting Stevie was unfathomable, unthinkable. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t.  
  
He hugs Stevie a little tighter next time they get the chance. Next time Stevie sits next to him on the coach (and they always sit together now—Xabi finds somewhere else these days), and rests his head on Jamie’s shoulder, Jamie pulls him in close and kisses his hair affectionately. He does everything he can to tell Stevie he is loved. Everything just short of actually telling Stevie he loves him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love you," Stevie says, kissing his way to Jamie's mouth.

Their chances of winning the league shrink, as they fall further behind Chelsea. And they’re neck and neck with United. If Jamie was a different man, he might have wished he could go back in time and keep just one more clean sheet, beat one more draw, and top United. It had to be Chelsea and United, he thinks to himself. They’re the two that hurt the most.  
  
(Other than Everton, and it’s been ages since his boyhood club’s actually been up there with them, actually gunning properly for the league. It’s a sad fact that Everton usually settles for top-half of the table, these days, whether they admit it or not.)  
  
So they’re out of Champions League and pretty solidly out of the running for the title, though second place is still up for grabs, and they want it, badly, just to finish over United.  
  
There’s still the FA Cup, though. They beat both Chelsea and United along the way, and those victories help ease the sting Jamie feels when April rolls around and Liverpool’s chances at the title have all but evaporated. At this point, they would still have a chance… If there was a plague at Chelsea and all their first team players went out of commission and all they had left were the U21s.  
  
And then the FA Cup Final rolls around, and the season suddenly doesn’t feel like such a monumental failure. The final’s against West Ham, and it feels really, properly winnable.  
  
The whistle blows. It takes less than ten minutes for Jamie to score an own goal and curse the day he was born. Pepe fumbles a save, and West Ham shoves the rebound under his outstretched arm, and they’re down two goals to nil in half an hour. But they have something West Ham will never have—Steven George Gerrard, Jamie’s beautiful brilliant boy, who threads a cross perfectly into the box and finds Cissé’s head easily.  
  
Stevie says a few words at half-time. Jamie stands beside him and adds a few of his own—their dynamic has shifted some over the years, and now they both share the duties of the captaincy, though Jamie still considers his main responsibility the care and protection of Stevie. Rafa talks about tactics for a few minutes, nods approvingly at the pair of them, which Jamie takes to mean they’re doing a perfectly adequate job leading.  
  
(That’s about the furthest Rafa goes as far as compliments. Perfectly adequate.)  
  
The second half kicks off.  
  
Stevie scores the equalizer, because of course he does, because he always comes through in the big matches.  
  
Jamie picks up a booking, because of course he does, he always goes in hard for the big matches.  
  
Just a minute after Jamie’s booking, West Ham score again.  
  
Xabi gets pulled out in the seventy-first minute, replaced with Kromkamp, and Jamie knows that Rafa wants them to park the bus, but he hates it, it’s so hard and it always hurts, it always, always hurts.  
  
They get near injury time, and Jamie begins to wonder if tonight he’ll be the one crying on Stevie’s shoulder. It will be his fault if they lose, of course. He knows that, as infallibly as he knows that Stevie is an angel in disguise, sent to redeem him, and he wears his wings on his feet on days like this.  
  
He stops wondering when Stevie slots one into the bottom corner from 35 yards. Jamie sprints over to him, throws his arms around him from behind, kisses the first exposed skin he can reach—it’s his temple this time, and thanks the universe for letting Stevie stay.  
  
It’s extra time, and Jamie’s starting to cramp, but that’s nothing new. He busts a gut defending. So does Stevie. So does everyone, everyone on both teams, and it works, because extra time is just a waste of energy, and both sides are still level.  
  
That same push-pull again, that same offering up of Jamie’s heart— _please take it, I don’t want it anymore, please, please._  
  
And selfishly snatching it back— _I need this, I want this, I want to feel alive._  
  
Didi makes his pen. Zamora doesn’t. (Jamie is planning on buying Pepe a drink, whatever happens.)  
  
 _I want this, I need this to feel alive._  
  
Sami doesn’t make his pen. Sheringham does.  
  
 _Take it, take it please, I don’t want it anymore._  
  
Stevie makes his. Of course he does. Jamie’s Stevie never misses penalties. Never.  
  
Konchesky isn’t Stevie. Konchesky doesn’t make his penalty. (Pepe Reina is a godsend.)  
  
 _Please, please, I need this to love Stevie with._  
  
Riise makes his pen. Ferdinand doesn’t. (Maybe he’ll buy him the whole bar.)  
  
 _You’ll pry this from my cold lifeless hands, because I’m never letting go._  
  
Stevie wraps his arms around him. Maybe he decides that he’s never letting go, either.  
  
There’s a celebration party. There always is. Jamie loves winning trophies, don’t get him wrong, but the party afterwards is a hit or miss thing. There are the nights when he falls asleep wrapped around Stevie, and one of them (or both) wakes up with teethmarks, and the other one is sheepish but unrepentant. But then there’s the memory of Stevie being kissed by Xabi Alonso, a man more handsome and more intelligent and more talented than Jamie could ever hope to be.  
  
Jamie and Stevie don’t drink like they used to at the celebration party, or maybe they do and they just handle it better. They only have a couple of beers each, sipping slowly and laughing as they watch the chaos, and interceding when it gets to be a bit too much or when one of the young boys goes from having fun to being reckless and dangerous.  
  
They reminisce and Stevie leans into Jamie’s space to make himself heard over the music and the shouting and Jamie pretends he missed the words anyway so he can lean in a little too. They watch the lads go and pack up the stragglers and bundle them back to their rooms, Xabi hanging off Lucho’s shoulder mumbling Neruda in Spanish, eyes locked on Stevie in a way that makes Jamie’s heart ache with sympathy. He knows that look well.  
  
Robbie holds out awhile, knows how to hold his liquor—if there’s one thing the Spice Boys are good at, it’s drinking. He looks knowingly at Stevie and Jamie, and claps them on the shoulders.  
  
 _I’m proud of you boys_ , he says quietly, speech not even slightly slurred. It’s uncharacteristic, coming from Robbie, who’s more likely to bemoan the loss of his sweet innocent children than to tell them how proud he is of the men they’ve become.  
  
But Robbie can be serious too, as much as anyone, and he’s always been fond of the pair of them—they remind him of him and Macca, a bit, only luckier, because they’ve both stayed. He walks back to his hotel room, only slightly unsteady, leaving the pair of them looking at his back and wondering where the time’s gone.  
  
They’re sitting at the bar alone when Stevie leans in to Jamie and whispers in his ear.  
  
(And he doesn’t _have_ to lean in, not anymore, Jamie realizes with a thrill, because it’s quiet now, without the lads. He’s doing this because he _wants_ to, wants to lean into Jamie. _Oh_.)  
  
 _Let’s go to bed_ , he says, and rises from his barstool. Jamie shivers at the whisper, at the implications, and follows, heart galloping.  
  
(Then again, Jamie always follows. Stevie could have said _follow me to hell_ , and Jamie would have.)  
  
Jamie opens the door and lets Stevie go in first. He follows behind, and goes to lie down on the bed, still fully-dressed, and Stevie grins at him, stalks over, and climbs onto the bed until he’s right on top of Jamie, doesn’t make any effort to support his own weight, and there’s more contact than ever before. He can feel Stevie everywhere, all over him, pressing into him.  
  
This is _different_ , this isn’t them cuddling while asleep, this is Stevie climbing on top of him and grinning at him, taking Jamie’s face in his hands, and looking at him, until that grin is pressed against his mouth, _finally_ , and Jamie’s stomach is full of champagne bubbles and sparks.  
  
And Stevie, Stevie’s _right there_ , and it’s _so much better_ than he remembers, so much more than two drunken boys fumbling in the dark.  
  
He’s _much_ better at kissing, Stevie is, now, and Jamie wonders who he’s practiced with since the last time, which beautiful women and which gorgeous men. But then Stevie kisses him again, slow and sweet and open-mouthed and Jamie can’t think anymore. For the first time in his life, his mind just takes a rest.  
  
 _You were incredible today_ , Jamie murmurs in the time when he should be taking a breath.  
  
 _You’ve always been incredible_ , Stevie whispers back as he leans down, presses his lips to Jamie’s neck. Jamie lets him, until he feels Stevie catch the skin between his teeth.  
  
 _No, not again!_ Jamie laughs, _You can kiss, but not_ that _. They’ll figure it out one of these days. We can’t be young and stupid anymore._  
  
Stevie pouts at him, places a quick kiss near Jamie’s throat and comes back up to his jaw.  
  
 _I love you_ , he says, kissing his way to Jamie’s mouth.  
  
Jamie gasps, half at the man’s words, half at his actions.  
  
He pushes at Stevie, who looks confused, a little hurt, even, but sits up obligingly, still on top of Jamie. Jamie props himself up onto his elbows and looks at him.  
  
 _Are you drunk, Steven?_ His voice is sad, resigned.  
  
 _No, James_ , Stevie says, teasing. _Not drunk. Just in love with you._  
  
 _Really?_ Jamie’s skeptical. Of course, he’d talked himself out of believing years ago.  
  
 _Really, really_. Stevie’s eyes are bright and warm, and Jamie’s loved him for such a long time it _aches_ inside him. _Sami told me you didn’t think I felt the same_.  
  
 _But, Xabi_ , Jamie protests.  
  
 _We… tried, Xabi and I. Once._ Stevie admits _. We’re better as friends, though_. Stevie says gently. _He’ll never know me like you do._  
  
Jamie surges upwards until Stevie’s sat across his lap, puts a hand into the soft hair at the back of his head, and pulls him into another kiss. It’s the first time that night he kisses Stevie, rather than the other way round, and he notes with satisfaction how soft Stevie is under his arms, how Stevie’s arms wrap around his neck, how Stevie’s hands push through his hair.  
  
 _Hey_ , he says, pulling back for just a moment. Stevie looks at him, impatient fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. _I love you too_.  
  
Stevie beams and kisses him again.  
  
The next time he pulls at the shirt, Jamie lifts his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this isn't the end of this story. You might have noticed--we're still in 2006 here. We've got a lot more years left to come, and I'm working on those chapters as we speak. I've got four or five more written at the minute, but they're not quite in chronological order yet, so please be patient with me. 
> 
> And I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas, and enjoys the two chapter upload in honor of the holiday! ; )


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie wakes first the next morning, head on Stevie’s chest, and he can feel the reassuring rhythmic thump of his heartbeat. He pulls away, and can’t believe that this boy loves him back. He can’t believe, can’t believe that Stevie would—
> 
> "Come back, J," Stevie mumbles, half asleep. "Come back, love." 
> 
> Believing is suddenly the easiest thing in the world.

Jamie wakes first the next morning, head on Stevie’s chest, and he can feel the reassuring rhythmic thump of his heartbeat. He pulls away, and can’t believe that this boy loves him back. He _can’t_ believe, can’t _believe_ that Stevie would—  
  
 _Come back, J_ , Stevie mumbles, half asleep, _come back, love_. Believing is suddenly the easiest thing in the world. He does, settles his head back in the same spot, turns to press a gentle kiss to Stevie’s chest. Stevie smiles and runs a heavy hand through Jamie’s hair.  
  
They’re both happy at breakfast. But then again, everyone is happy—they’ve just won a trophy, after all. And it’s not their fault they were smart enough not to drink themselves into a morning full of regret, even if nobody else was.  
  
But they look at each other, smile at each other, and even Xabi can’t get Stevie’s attention that morning. He’s too busy joking and smiling bashfully and pushing and shoving and patting and hugging at Jamie like a schoolboy looking for any excuse to touch his sweetheart. And Jamie is brilliant, kind and sweet and he laughs in all the right places, and he leans in to talk to him, and he wraps an arm round him casually, and Stevie just sort of _sinks_ into it.  
  
Sami and Didi exchange a knowing look. Sami looks at the pair of them and smiles. Didi looks at the pair of them and frowns. Robbie looks at them like a knowing dad.  
  
Milling around the hotel the next morning, waiting for the coach, he pulls them aside.  
  
 _Finally pulled your heads out of your asses, have you?_ He asks with a smirk.  
  
 _Dunno what you mean, Rob,_ Stevie says.  
  
Jamie glances around, makes sure nobody can see them. He grabs Stevie’s hand and interlocks their fingers. _Yeah, Robbie, we have_.  
  
 _Took you long enough,_ Robbie says with a grin. They pull their hands apart, though they’re still touching.  
  
 _Don’t I know it. Took this one forever to just tell me what he was thinking._  
  
 _I meant what I said last night, you know. I really am proud of you. And this? This is the most important thing in your lives. It was before too, even before you took it further. Don’t fuck it up, boys._ Robbie grabs them both into a hug and then turns around and walks away.  
  
That’s the thing about Robbie. He’s known them so long he can just say whatever he likes to them at this point. Doesn’t matter who’s wearing the armband, he’s a senior player to them, and they’ll give him a break. It’s nice, actually, to have someone who can actually talk to them like that, like they’re still kids. Eases the pressure a bit, and they love him for it.

  
  
Didi leaves that summer. He shows up at Stevie’s door one day, notices with a distinct lack of surprise that Jamie’s car is already there. He knocks politely and waits.  
  
 _May I come in?_  
  
 _Didi! Yeah, of course, Carra’s here, too, if that’s okay._  
  
 _Fine, fine._  
  
 _I’m leaving_ , Didi says bluntly. _Getting a bit too old to keep up with you young boys._ Jamie bites back a smile. Twenty-seven, and still being called a young boy, it’s nice.  
  
 _You two need to be careful_. He says.  
  
 _Careful?_ Stevie’s voice is even, tones of surprise and confusion balancing perfectly, as if he doesn’t know what Didi’s referring to.  
  
 _Cut the crap_ , Didi says dismissively. _I know. I’ve known since Jamie broke his leg against Rovers. You looked like you wished it was yours, Stevie, dropped everything to be with him, during and after the game. And I’m old enough now to know what love looks like._  
  
 _But you two didn’t realize until recently, I take it._  
  
There’s silence. Didi’s a good man, but he doesn’t exactly invite confidences, especially not romantic confidences.  
  
 _The night we won the FA Cup, was it?_ They school their expressions well enough, but they both flush.  
  
 _Some people will not understand. They will target you, each for your own sake and to hurt the other. Do you understand?_  
  
Stevie nods for the both of them. Jamie looks at the carpet.  
  
 _I trust you will take care of each other and protect each other. Do not let this interfere with the team, or one of you will be sent away._  
  
 _The years ahead will not be easy, and you two bear the heavy weight of expectation. Do not try to shoulder that burden alone. I believe you can do it, the pair of you. Together._  
  
 _I won’t take up any more of your time,_ Didi says finally, rising. _It was a privilege and an honor to play beside you both._  
  
 _And you Didi_ , Jamie says.  
  
 _You’ve taught us so much,_ Stevie adds.  
  
He turns back at the doorway. _I’m truly happy for you both_ , he says with a small smile. _And I wish you all the best for a wonderful future_. And then he’s gone.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things change after they both realize that they’re colossal idiots.
> 
> In which Jamie does dishes and Stevie cooks breakfast. 
> 
> And why are there so many different types of onions again?

Some things change after they both realize that they’re colossal idiots.  
   
(Jamie doesn’t care—he’s happier than he ever reasonably expected himself to be.)  
   
(Stevie doesn’t mind, either—not many people actually end up with their teenage crushes.)  
   
The change isn’t instant—Stevie doesn’t come home from the final and move all his clothes and DVDs and photos into Jamie’s house or anything mad like that.  
 

They have an offseason to themselves, which is to say, a few weeks to themselves before they start getting ready for international duty and preseason training and going on tours to far off places that they never get to properly see, somehow.  
   
So they start small—they go on vacation together. Admittedly, that does not sound like starting small, and it wouldn’t be, for normal people. But they’re hardly normal people, and besides, they’ve always gone on vacation together, to California’s sandy beaches or Las Vegas or Miami or Dubai or to some gorgeous island in the Caribbean with white sand beaches and sun that makes Jamie burn before he tans.  
   
They’d always gone on vacation together as friends, and they do the same this year. They rent a house again this year. They don’t have separate bedrooms, but then, they never have before, either—they share a bed, as they’ve been doing for years now.  
  
They go to a private beach, on some island Jamie can’t pronounce and Stevie tries to, but always gets wrong. They rent a house, with a swimming pool, even though Jamie doesn’t really think they need it, not when the ocean’s so close by.  
  
They sit out in the sun, keep up their tan without having to sweat for it. They go out and swim, race each other to see who can go further out or who can swim to that buoy fastest, until their muscles are tired from swimming and they’ve each swallowed about a pint of seawater from laughing, because they kept stopping to splash each other. They try grilling, the pair of them, one at a time, while the other checks the recipe and wonders if red onions are considered an acceptable replacement for green onions.  
  
_But then there’s yellow onions and white onions, too? And why do people even eat onions, J! They’re the worst!_  
  
_Well, you should have mentioned that before you picked this recipe, Stevie! Besides, if we both eat them, it won’t matter when we kiss afterwards._  
  
_I don’t mind onions so much._  
  
Jamie reads before bed and Stevie picks up the habit too, after a couple of days peering over Jamie’s shoulder and being gently pushed away, and another couple nights, resting in Jamie’s lap or against his shoulder or on his chest and listening to him read out loud and falling asleep in the middle of chapters.  
  
Jamie’s books are about football, usually, tactics and history and culture. Stevie’s books are about footballers, usually, childhoods and youths and adulthoods at big clubs and living dreams and lifting trophies. He wonders how much of it is true, how much they’ve left out, to protect themselves and their friends and their families and their teammates. It’s the sort of book Stevie could write, and maybe he will, one day, but not now. Right now, it’s the kind of life Stevie wants that takes precedence.  
  
Sometimes Jamie puts his book away and pulls Stevie’s out of his hands and kisses him in a way that promises more. They get to it, the more, and it’s… not that great at first. Stevie knows Jamie’s body better than anyone else on the planet, but he only knows it by sight. He’s got the scars on Jamie’s stomach memorized, notices every bruise after matches and every cut on his fingers from when he’s cutting something and the knife slips. And Jamie’s the same. They know each other, really, really well.  
  
But they’re used to women and men and women are not quite the same in this particular area. After the first time, which is awkward and clumsy, but still nice, Jamie sighs and looks disappointed, like he’s expecting Stevie to up and leave him over this.  
  
Stevie just pulls him in close and kisses him. _Not a bad place to start_ , he says mildly. _But we can do better. Just need a bit of practice, yeah?_  
  
_Practice sounds good,_ Jamie says, smiling at him. _I’m going to be the best you’ve ever had._  
  
_We can practice all day tomorrow, love,_ Stevie promises sleepily.  
  
And they may not have degrees in rocket science or comparative literature, but Stevie and Jamie are pretty intelligent in other ways, especially about each other. They talk each other through it, stave off the awkwardness with jokes and kisses, and they figure it out, eventually.  
  
And it’s brilliant, easily the best Stevie’s ever had—Jamie grins when he tells him so, presses a quick, dirty kiss against his mouth, and pulls away with an expression that says _I told you so_ without needing words. They both know it’s because they know each other so well, because they know what’s behind every twitch of the eyebrows or quirk of the lips, understanding every sound, every breath.  
  
(Neither of them was born good at football, after all. They weren’t born brilliant like the Messis of this world. They started small and skinny and fought their way, and studied the maestros, and read the work of the geniuses of the game, and pushed through the pain to get where they were. So a bit of mediocre sex was nothing, really, just another thing to work at until they excelled.)  
  
Stevie thinks he might be too old to have his body played like this—it shines bright like young love, and they’re not quite so young anymore—but Jamie doesn’t much care. Truthfully, Stevie doesn’t either, not when he’s the same with Jamie, knows him just as well. And experience helps, which is probably why it’s so good that both of them have it.  
  
They come back to Liverpool, tan and relaxed and ready for preseason.  
  
They carpool to training, that’s another change. Sometimes one of them stays the night. Sometimes Stevie steals Jamie’s clothes, something innocuous like socks or a scarf or a hat. Sometimes he forgets things when he goes home, and Jamie will sigh and smile and hang Stevie’s clothes in his closet, tuck Stevie’s toothbrush next to his own in the bathroom.  
  
There’s a lot more kissing, and most of it is sober, and it sinks into their everyday routines so that they miss it when they’re apart. There’s more than kissing too, and that’s nice, but it’s not quite as nice as the simple comfort of sharing the same space—being tangled up in the same bed, brushing their teeth at the same sink, making eyes at each other in the mirror, pulling faces when they get caught.  
  
Then there’s the pet names. Jamie calls Stevie _love_ sometimes, at night or in the mornings, when he’s softer than normal and sleepy-honest, and tries to keep Stevie from leaving by kissing him. Stevie has a particular fondness for _dearest_ , likes the way it takes just one word to say you, of all the people in all the world, _you_ are the most dear to me. He says it a handful of times each day, when he looks at the dearest boy in the world and wants to tell him that he is. As long as they’re not at work, that is.  
  
There aren’t many surprises after all these years, but there are some—Stevie’s a better cook when it comes to breakfast foods—he can do eggs of all sorts, but Jamie’s better at dinner—the rice cooker actually _listens_ to him, and he does a good pasta.  
  
Jamie whistles while he does the dishes. When Stevie hears him the first time, his stomach warms and rises, in the wholesome, generous way of baking bread. He presses his lips to the back of Jamie’s neck, wraps him in his arms for a moment. Jamie stops whistling abruptly at the kiss, turning to smile at him for a few heartbeats before he laughs and waves him away because _you can’t just_ do _that to a man, Stevie. I’ll end up breaking every dish we own if you keep that up_.  
  
_I don’t do that to just any man, dearest_ , Stevie teases.  
  
_I should hope not, you flirt._  
  
Stevie hangs about until Jamie hands him a dish towel and tells him to make himself useful. So he dries the dishes Jamie hands him and stacks them neatly back up into their places. He likes the quietness of it. No conversation, just the running water, the clinking of dishes, and whatever tune Jamie’s got for him.  
   
   
So they carpool to work. And sometimes Stevie invites himself over and watches Jamie cook them both dinner. And sometimes he stays the night and sometimes Jamie wakes up to breakfast in bed and a kiss and a perfectly made cup of tea.  
   
That much is new. But it feels deceptively natural, like an organic progression of their friendship. It’s like when you first meet someone, and you shake their hand, and then you’re friends and you hug them, and sleep with your head on their shoulder, and then you’re lovers and you kiss them on the mouth and sleep with them. Only Stevie and Jamie have been sleeping together a lot longer than they’d been kissing, and they’d been kissing long before they crossed that nebulous line between friendship love and this other kind—this new kind that meant they spent more time looking at each other’s mouths and taking each other’s clothes off.  
   
Perhaps more surprising than the things that change are the things that don’t, and there are a lot. Their teammates don’t know that things have changed, except for Robbie and maybe Sami, who smiles at Jamie a lot more now than he did before, and has entirely stopped looking at him in that old pitying way.  
  
After Stevie scores a goal, he’s just as likely to jump onto Xabi or Sami as he is onto Jamie, just as likely to fly towards them and wrap them in his arm, to kiss their cheeks or their heads if they score. But Jamie doesn’t mind—he’s the same, just as likely to pull Xabi in for a tight hug if he scores, almost as likely to peck him on the cheek if he scores a stoppage time screamer. Fortunately, they’re both mature enough now and secure enough in themselves and each other not to complicate things with jealousy. They come home to each other, and that’s that, and no harm done.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie pulls away from Stevie when Michael calls, knowing instinctively that it's not right, running a hand through Stevie's hair and hearing Michael's voice on the phone.

Michael calls, on one of those rare days they have off. They’re being lazy, watching X Factor together. Stevie’s resting his head in Jamie’s lap.

 

 _That woman was really good_ , Stevie murmurs sleepily. _Very good vocal range._

 

 _You just like her because her backstory made you cry_ , Jamie teases.

 

 _She deserves to be happy_ , Stevie says. Jamie runs his hands gently through Stevie’s hair.

 

The phone rings. It’s Jamie’s, and he finds it, stuck behind a couch cushion.

 

_Carra?_

_Mickey._ Jamie’s fingers slip out of Stevie’s hair, and he goes to pull it back, instinctively feeling something wrong with talking to Michael with Stevie’s head in his lap, but Stevie catches his hand and places it over his heart.

 

Jamie closes his eyes. He slips his hand under Stevie’s shirt from the neck, so his palm is resting on Stevie’s bare skin. He can feel Stevie’s heartbeat better this way. It’s still steady, which makes one of them. Stevie does him the small mercy of not looking at him, which would only make this harder.

 

 _Mickey_ , he says again, mouth suddenly horribly dry. _Hi. How are you?_

 

_Does Rafa need a striker? Please, Carra, I want to come home to you again. Please get him to let me come home._

 

_I’ll… ask him. Garcia’s still doing really well, and we have a lot of goals from midfield at the minute—_

_Yeah, I know. Stevie and his Spaniard really tore through us last season,_ Michael says, snorting out a bitter laugh. Jamie’s fingers tighten on Stevie’s chest, and Stevie puts his own hand on top, separated by the fabric of the shirt.

 

_They’re not like that. Stevie isn’t Xabi’s._

_How do you know?_ Michael asks, sounding more alert, somehow, almost suspicious.

 

Jamie doesn’t say anything.

 

 _Oh_ , Michael says. _So you’ve finally got him, then? No point telling you who loved you first, who’s loved you longer, then._

_You left, Michael. You left!_

_I’m trying to come back!_

_I’ll—_ Jamie swallows and takes a deep breath. Stevie sits up, pulls away. Jamie lets him move away, pulls his hand away from the reassuring thump of his heart. He catches hold of Stevie’s hand, instead. He stares at the television, which Stevie’s muted for him. _I’ll talk to Rafa, see if he needs anyone. But I did that last year too. I wouldn’t get your hopes up._

_I still love you, you know, Carra._ Michael says, sounding sad and a little desperate.

 

 _I’ll call you, Michael_ , Jamie says, and hangs up.

 

 _You’ve been asking Rafa to let him come back?_ Stevie asks quietly. _That’s not your place, Jamie, and we both know it._

_He was my best friend_ , Jamie says back helplessly, still staring at the television—there’s a young boy on now, singing prettily for his sweetheart. Or so Jamie assumes. The sound’s still muted. Maybe he’s awful, screeching horribly off-key.

 

 _I asked him to stay, you know_. Stevie says.

 

 _You and Michael didn’t get on that well_. Jamie says, which isn’t a question, but Stevie answers the one Jamie wanted to ask without skipping a beat.

_I didn’t do it for me_. Stevie looks at their hands, no longer linked, but resting on the sofa next to each other. He reaches out with one finger and brushes his fingertip across the back of Jamie’s hand. He traces something lightly against the skin there, feeling Jamie’s veins and his bones underneath.

 

(It’s the number eight. Of course it is. Jamie shivers at the touch. They’re not jealous by nature, the pair of them, but Michael and Stevie had been… _different_.)

 

_I asked him to stay for you. Because I knew how you felt about him. So I called him, but he’d already signed. He told me to take care of you and hung up._

 

Jamie could tell him now, could tell him that he’d tried to make Michael stay too, in his own way. He could go into long, painful details about how that had been. _I let him kiss me, Stevie_ , he could have said, _to get him to stay. I would have done more to keep him. Would’ve done anything to keep him._

 

Instead, he turns off the television and slowly, deliberately crawls over Stevie, until he’s on top of him, lets Stevie’s hands slide under his shirt and up his back. He lowers himself down until they’re pressed together, Stevie solid under him, and kisses Stevie slowly, softly, thoughtfully, until he knows what to say.

 

He pulls away when he is ready, and not before. The words wait in his throat, patient.

 

_That was two years ago, before we—_

_I know. I still did, though. Still loved you_. Stevie confesses. _He probably thought I was a hypocrite, sitting on that offer from Chelsea and telling him to stay._

 

Jamie leans down and kisses him again. _You weren’t. And I did too, even then. But not him. It’s always been you, love._

The last word sets a new fire blazing in Stevie’s eyes, and the kisses change, get a little more intense, a little less soft and soon Jamie’s making Stevie gasp from the little kisses across his neck, biting every now and then.

 

_Take me to bed, J._

 

Jamie does. The pair of them are clumsier than two sober professional athletes have any right to be, kissing and knocking against walls. Stevie’s shirt is over the banister and Jamie’s is on the sofa, and they almost knock over a vase Stevie’s mum gave him as a housewarming present, but still. Some things are more important.

 

 

Of course, Jamie still goes to Rafa’s office a few days later, still asks him if they could find space for Mickey somewhere. Rafa explains that they can’t, just like last year, and that he’s sorry.

 

 _Players and clubs arrange transfers, Carra_ , he says gently _. Not friends. I think you know this already, no?_

Jamie sighs, and says the same thing he’d said to Stevie that night _. He was my best friend, boss._

_But not anymore._ Rafa says with a quiet certainty. Jamie shrugs at him and smiles wearily.

 

Rafa shakes his hand and gives him a quick hug goodbye, which means that he must really look pathetic, because Rafa is _not_ a hugger. Jamie leaves the office and leaves it all behind.

 

That night Jamie comes home looking tired and withdrawn. Stevie hugs him tight and makes dinner, pasta that is slightly crunchier than it should be and whatever readymade tomato sauce they have in the fridge. Jamie loves him, even more than before, loves him more than he thought himself capable of loving anyone, ever.

 

Stevie even starts washing the dishes before Jamie shakes off the disappointment and finds his hands really want something to do. He nudges Stevie’s hip with his own, away from the sink. He takes the plate from Stevie’s hand and watches him watch the suds away before he starts washing instead. He doesn’t whistle, doesn’t have any pretty melodies to give his boy tonight.

 

He’s surprised, when he hears a breathy, rusty whistle coming from the man beside him. It’s sweet, even if Stevie can’t really carry a tune and it’s unsteady, fading out sometimes when he runs out of breath. When they’ve finished washing and drying, Jamie’s still standing at the sink, looking out the window. Stevie comes up behind him and kisses the base of his neck, the same spot he’d woken with teethmarks a few years ago.

 

 _Come to bed, dearest_ , he says when Jamie turns to face him. Jamie leans in, pecks him softly on the mouth, and they do.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They start the 2006-07 season by winning the Community Shield. 
> 
> Stevie and Jamie do most of their celebrating in private. 
> 
> And later: 
> 
> "Will you still love me even if I can't be your miracle man anymore?"

Then the 2006-2007 season starts brilliantly. They win the Community Shield in August, which is nice.  
  
The lads celebrate this one a little quietly, drinking more water than beer. The season’s just starting, anyway. Rafa is quite clear that the Community Shield, while another piece of silverware, is not their priority for the season, and that anyone noticeably hungover will be doing extra sprint suicides, and that’s bad enough that most of the lads control themselves. Some of them slip up, but it only takes a quiet reminder from one of their captains, a I’m-sorry-mate-it’s-not-me-it’s-the-manager-you-understand sort of reminder with a heavy arm around their shoulders, and they remember quick enough.  
  
Stevie and Jamie do most of their celebrating in private, anyway, and it’s another glorious night. They follow the same rules as everyone else during the week—regular sleeping schedules, no sex the nights before matches, especially not when there’s a trophy on the line. There are no rules about after matches, though.  
  
Trophy nights are different anyway, the adrenaline of the victory and the rush of testosterone and endorphins mixing like a potent cocktail in their blood, making them nearly delirious with joy, powerful and incredibly _alive_. It’s the same passion that made Stevie act on his crush when he was twenty years old, made him kiss Jamie in the middle of a party, hands wandering up his back as if they weren’t still in public. And afterwards, there are the little adoring compliments, spoken in drowsy sincerity.  
  
 _You’re my miracle, Stevie_ , Jamie whispers, trailing a finger along Stevie’s cheek, _my beautiful miracle man_.  
  
 _I need you, Jamie, for every miracle. I’d be nothing without you, dearest, nothing._ Stevie kisses the rough fingertip when it crosses his mouth before going to the other side.  
  
Right before he falls asleep, Jamie curls close to Stevie. _Thank you for not leaving,_ he breathes into Stevie’s ear. _Thank you for not leaving me, love_.  
  
Stevie has long known that Jamie doesn’t say everything he thinks, but now he’s coming to appreciate how much he holds back, how hard it must have been not to ask him to stay—and Jamie hadn’t, not even once.  
  
 _Love you, dearest_ , he whispers quietly to the man who’s not sleeping next to him so much as he is sleeping nearly on top of him. He runs a hand through his hair, wraps his arms around Jamie’s back, and drifts off himself.  
  
  
  
It gets hard after that, though. Their league form isn’t as good as it should be, even though they do well in Champions League matches and the cups.  
  
The Merseyside derby is in September. Rafa just lets Stevie and Jamie do most of the talking. They know the derby better than he does, after all, and he covers tactics while they stir up the passion and the bravery that this match in particular requires.  
  
They lose it three-nil. Carra has a good shout at the lads afterwards—he’s always taken derbies personally, because of his own shamefully blue-checkered past. He’s red in the face (and in the heart and in the blood and in the shirt) and nearly incomprehensible, and Stevie stands beside him, stony-faced and silent, looking the picture of disappointment. He waits until Jamie’s had his say, until he’s spluttering for more words, but his well of expletives has run dry. He wraps his fingers around Jamie’s wrist, briefly, squeezes gently, and Jamie looks down at Stevie’s hand, and then up at Stevie’s face, and falls silent.  
  
 _This will not happen again_ , Stevie says quietly, making eye contact with every single teammate. _When they come to Anfield, I do not want to have this talk with you again._  
  
After that the dressing room is silent.  
  
Stevie and Jamie are the first ones to hit the showers, the first ones to leave, and the first ones to get in the coach, heading to the back. Stevie cracks a little smile— _thought you were gonna kill someone for a minute there, mate._  
  
 _Please, you_ like _it when I get angry_. There’s a hint of flirting in Jamie’s voice—only possible because he’s let go of all his anger. Stevie rolls his eyes at him.  
  
 _We’ll get ‘em next time, J, don’t worry. I won’t let you down again._  
  
Jamie turns to him, aghast. _It wasn’t you, lo—_ lad, he says emphatically, correcting the pet name before it slips. _Wasn’t you. You’ve never let me down, ever. But there’s eleven of us out there, and you can’t carry us all. Not every time._ He looks down and slips his fingers through Stevie’s.  
  
That night, they’re lying in bed, but still awake.  
  
 _Couldn’t get you your miracle today, Jamie. Will you still love me if I can’t be your miracle man anymore?_  
  
 _I’ve loved you since you were eighteen, love. Miracle man or not, you’re still mine, and I’m still yours. No matter how many own goals I score. Rough deal for you, really,_ Jamie teases. _It’s not too late to back out, if you want to._  
  
 _Don’t be ridiculous_. Stevie leans over and pecks Jamie’s mouth. _You’re still mine and I’m still yours, remember?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is staying with this story, even though it's going to be a long one. And to any new readers, welcome! And have patience with me, please. I have about another forty pages or so written, but they're non-chronological, so I've got to fill in some gaps. 
> 
> Nothing spurs me on like comments, though, so please let me know if you're enjoying it, or you're getting bored, or if you like certain sentences or phrases- I can live off of a comment for days, I can't express how much I like hearing what you think. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie lies in bed, watching Stevie undress. 
> 
> "So, Gary Neville was all over you, was he?"
> 
> In which Gary Neville causes problems even earlier than you'd expect.

They win both legs of their Champions League tie against Bordeaux.  
  
Then they turn around and lose in the league against Manchester United.  
  
Jamie’s fuming, fuming and silent, face reddening. Stevie stands up and walks around the dressing room.  
  
 _Where were you tonight?_ He asks the lads, deceptively calm with his hands clasped behind his back. _Where the fuck were you tonight? Because it sure as hell wasn’t fucking here._  
  
 _There are two names I look for in the summer when the fixture list comes out. Everton and Manchester United. Do you understand how much I hate losing at Old Trafford? And then Jamie and I have to go give a post-match interview saying that they deserved to win!_  
  
 _They wanted me, you know_ , Stevie says quietly to the silent room, full of eyes on him. _A couple years ago, I had Gary Neville all over me, begging me to sign for them, telling me how many titles I’d win with them. Phone calls from Alex Ferguson, right and left. I said no. I could have won today, could have been in the other dressing room, bathing in champagne, but I said no. Do you know how happy Neville is right now? He’s fucking chuffed to bits over this. Loves getting one over on me._  
  
Jamie’s staring at him now, in a different way. Stevie sees the way his lips thin into a line, the way he forces himself to mask the surprise and the hurt he feels, but not before Stevie catches it in his eyes. Stevie realizes he’s never told him, not about that particular offer. _Well, he knows now_ , he thinks grimly to himself.  
  
 _Do you know what this felt like? It felt like a fucking punch in the gut. I hope it felt the same to you, because I am not going to let this happen again, even if I have to go to extra training sessions for the next six months. When they come to Anfield, if this happens again, I will remember who didn’t perform. I will remember every lazy challenge, every careless error._  
  
Jamie watches him, his beautiful fiery man. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, not until they’re at home getting dressed for bed. They’re at Stevie’s that night, and Jamie wonders, for a moment, if Gary Neville’s ever been here. _Of course he hasn’t_ , he thinks to himself, _don’t be stupid_.  
  
 _Gary Neville was all over you, was he?_  
  
 _Not_ all _over me, J._  
  
 _But he was. And you didn’t tell me. It’s fine that you didn’t tell me at the time—your career, it’s your business. I get that, you know I do, and I’ve never interfered or told you what to do._  
  
Jamie get in bed and props himself up on his elbow, turning to watch Stevie pull off his tie. He has no idea why they have to travel in suits when they can just wear trackies instead.  
  
 _But after? When you’d said no. When you and I started this? We could’ve had a nice laugh about it together._  
  
 _I said no, Carra. Didn’t think you needed to know. I’ve said no to girls who’ve asked me out, too, should I tell you about all of them?_ Stevie’s unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, pulling it out of his suit trousers.  
  
 _Must’ve been in Portugal,_ Jamie muses, _when I was in your bed and Lamps and JT were in your head. So, on top of all that, Neville was whispering in your ear, too. Quite the lucky fella that summer, weren’t you?_ Stevie pulls the undershirt over his head and slips into an old faded t-shirt—it might be one of Jamie’s, actually, one of the ones he left here at some point. He pulls off his trousers, leaving his boxer shorts on.  
  
 _You’re still in me bed now, Jamie, and the others don’t matter._ Stevie says, getting under the covers with him.  
  
 _Damn straight._ Jamie leans down and kisses him hard, a little more bite to it than usual. And if Jamie is a little more aggressive, a little more possessive that night, well, Stevie doesn’t mind. Not at all. Not even when he wakes up the next morning, sore but satisfied, with Jamie pressing soft apology kisses all over his face, everywhere he can reach, reaching down to his neck, to his collarbones. He reaches under the old faded t-shirt and tracing along the lines of his abs, pushing up further to slot into the gentle spaces between his ribs.  
  
 _This is mine, you know_ , Jamie says quietly, hands rubbing up and down Stevie’s stomach, pausing to tickle gently at the spots he knows Stevie’s most ticklish.  
  
 _What?_ Stevie squirms a little. _Me or the t-shirt?_  
  
 _Yes_. His hand is over Stevie’s heart as he leans in for a proper good morning kiss.  
  
 _Thank you for not leaving, love_ , he says for the second time.  
  
 _Gary Neville’s got nothing on you, dearest._  
  
 _And John Terry?_ Jamie teases, giving him a little gentle pinch.  
  
 _No, not him, either. There’s no other defender out there for me. It’s just you and me, J, same as it’s always been._  
  
 _Now make me breakfast, love._  
  
 _You’ve got to let me out of bed for that, Jamie_ , Stevie laughs.  
  
 _Eh, we can just have a big lunch then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a lot of lovely comments on this, and every one spurs me on to write and edit and publish more! So if you had a favorite line, or a favorite image, or a favorite sentence, let me know!
> 
> If you wish things had gone differently, if you think things shouldn't have happened the way I write them here, let me know!
> 
> If you're excited to see how things go for them, or nervous about things coming up, such as *hint hint* Jamie's retirement, or you know, *HINT HINT* Stevie moving to LA, let me know! 
> 
> Anything from 'hey this was cool,' to a four paragraph essay on my stylistic decisions is absolutely welcome! Also feel free to go talk to me on tumblr (@thesecretdetectivecollection) or go send me an ask on there if you're more comfortable doing that! :)


	19. Chapter 19

November passes quickly and without much fuss. They win, but unspectacularly, just taking care of business.  
  
December kicks off with a proper bang, though. 4-0 against Wigan, a tight 3-2 loss against Galatasaray, and then Fulham.  
  
Fulham is one of those matches that starts out quite ordinary. They go, and they do what they’re supposed to do. They win.  
  
Stevie scores in the fifty-fourth minute. Jamie’s proud of him, the way he’s always proud of him after he scores, like fire in his chest. He pulls him into a hug and holds him tight, presses his lips to his neck _. Well done, Stevie_ , he praises quietly, before letting him go.  
  
They’re on the front foot now—they’re on the attack, even Jamie’s coming up, leaving Daniel Agger behind to hold the line. It’s only a few minutes later that they earn a corner. Stevie takes it, and there are four red shirts and then there’s one more, Jamie, out on his own at the far post. Jamie struggling for some space, watching the ball arc towards him, flying past Daniel, past all of them… The ball arcs towards him, beautiful as the man who kicked it, and it’s right there, and all it needs is a touch, this beautiful thing that Stevie’s made, just needs a touch from Jamie to make the people sing…  
  
He nudges at it with his toe, it shoots past the keeper, and he can’t believe it, can hardly remember this feeling, this warm explosion of joy, the joy that comes from knowing not only that the team’s won, but that he’s helped, that he’s scored the goal… Why, oh _why_ , did he stop being a striker, leave the glory for the grit of defending?  
  
He’s running, running towards the touchline, towards anyone, and everyone’s running towards him, all his teammates hugging him and patting his hair and he’s being kissed by someone whose face he can’t even see.  
  
And Stevie’s far away, because he took the corner, but nearer every second because he’s sprinting the width of the field to get to his Jamie. And Stevie is barreling towards him, arms open, look of fierce pride on his face, and if there’s one thing that sums up Liverpool Football Club it’s this goal—forged by Steven Gerrard and nudged along by Jamie Carragher. He pulls away from all the others, all the others who love him, and when Stevie leaps onto him, legs wrapped round his waist, he catches him, hands tucked securely under those legs. Stevie’s arms are around his neck, and he’s kissing Jamie’s neck now.  
  
_You knew what I was thinking, J, you always know what I’m thinking, you brilliant boy, you genius of a boy, I love you so much._  
  
_It was you, Stevie, all you, that perfect ball, that incredible vision. Couldn’t have done it without you._ Jamie lets one of his arms wrap around Stevie’s back while the other one holds him up, just for a moment before Jamie lets him go, landing effortlessly on the grass. They run off, still with Stevie’s arm around Jamie’s neck for a moment before it slips away.  
  
It’s the first time Jamie and Stevie have both made the score sheet. And Jamie _never_ scores, has long resigned himself to the fact that his, well, his whatever-they-are-now will score enough goals for the both of them.  
  
But the goal lights him up inside, almost the way being kissed by Stevie does.  
  
They can’t stop grinning at each other like idiots in the dressing room after.  
  
They get home, to Jamie’s that night, and as soon as Jamie’s opened the door, he’s being pushed inside and pressed against a wall, being kissed hungrily by Stevie.  
  
_Special occasion, this_ , he whispers to Jamie, who’s just trying to keep up, _how shall we celebrate?_  
  
He pulls Jamie into the kitchen, fetches a bottle of champagne and struggles with the cork a bit before he manages to open it, laughing as it foams and spills all over them. He tips it into Jamie’s mouth and then his own, and kisses him just as he’s finished swallowing it.  
  
_We’re taking this to bed with us_ , he says with a grin, and Jamie just looks at him, completely lost, and nods in agreement. Stevie could say anything and Jamie would agree to it, if he kissed him like that afterwards.  
  
_Better get you out of those wet clothes,_ Stevie says with a wicked grin.  
  
_You too_ , Jamie says, dazed, but determined. _You too, Stevie._  
  
_Sure, me too. Trust me, I’m just as eager to get naked as I am to get you naked, dearest._ Stevie kisses his neck, pulls the skin between his teeth and bites down gently. Jamie gasps and Stevie moves up to his mouth.  
  
_Come on_ , he mutters impatiently, half to Jamie and half to himself, as his hands work feverishly at the buttons of Jamie’s dress shirt, pulling his suit jacket off and leaving it on the kitchen counter.  
  
He drags Jamie to their bedroom and pushes him down onto the bed, while he undresses as quickly as he can.  
  
_Hey, come ‘ere, lad,_ Jamie says fondly, and Stevie obeys, still wrestling with his shirt buttons.  
  
_What’s the rush, love?_  
  
_Want to reward my goalscorer for his brilliant performance today, can’t wait to have him in my arms, shouting my name…_  
  
_And what if I want to reward_ my _goalscorer?_ asks Jamie, amused.  
  
_Later_ , Stevie says, finally undoing the last button and throwing his shirt to the ground _. Me later._ He presses kisses to Jamie’s skin, starting at the scars cutting across his stomach, and working his way up to his mouth. _You now, J, love you so much, you’re the best thing in my whole life, Jamie, there’s no contest, I’d do anything for you, anything, just name it._  
  
_Take a breath, Stevie_ , Jamie gasps, _just… take a breath._  
  
You _take a breath_ , Stevie says childishly, _I’d rather kiss you._ The complaint shifts the mood from feverish to playful—Jamie laughs at him, and Stevie smiles sheepishly. He sits up and grabs the champagne bottle, downing a few gulps and handing the bottle to Jamie, who does the same.  
  
_You’re an idiot._  
  
_‘S’true, Carra. Hand on my heart, it’s true._ Stevie’s so sincere, it almost hurts to hear. Jamie hands the bottle back to him and watches him gulp down a fair bit of champagne.  
  
_Come ‘ere, you._ Jamie rolls them over, so he’s on top. _Me too. It’s true for me too._ Stevie can’t even remember what they’re talking about, but the way Jamie’s talking—it must mean something along the lines of _I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody_.  
  
(He’s not wrong.)  
  
The mood shifts again, back to heat, but calmer, slower. Jamie’s almost painfully slow when he kisses Stevie. Stevie calms down, hands no longer frenzied in their eagerness to touch.  
  
_We’ve got time, love. All the time in the world,_ Jamie whispers, running a hand through Stevie’s hair.  
  
After that, well, it’s… a _good_  night. Several times over, in fact. And a good morning as well, a couple more times. Jamie hadn’t even known he was capable of having _that_ good a night. He’s rather impressed with his own stamina, actually.  
   
All told, it’s a good thing training is optional the day after matches. Jamie and Stevie spend the day recovering.  
  
(Mostly from their celebrating, but nobody knows that, of course.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason David and Goliath is a good story. 
> 
> Stevie and Jamie's first coaching experiences come about in an unexpected way, but they wouldn't trade them for the world.

In January, Arsenal comes in and knocks them out of the League Cup and the FA Cup.  
  
In February, they have a scoreless draw against Everton at Anfield. But the league is starting not to matter as much anymore—not when the Champions League is still on the table. They knock Barcelona out in February. It doesn’t make the scoreless draw against the Blues hurt any less on the day, but it does soothe the ache as time goes on.  
  
They lose 1-0 to United at Anfield. It’s an injury time winner. Nobody has the energy to be angry. Disappointment fills the dressing room like steam from the showers, making the air thick and hard to breathe. Jamie can’t breathe right until he and Stevie get home, until he starts cooking and Stevie puts something on the telly. Until Stevie takes his hand and squeezes it, just the once, and they go on. Jamie’s glad, for an instant, glad that he has someone to go on with.  
  
They beat Arsenal in the league, Crouchy with a hat-trick and Daniel Agger with another goal to top it off. It feels good—like revenge for being knocked out of both domestic cups. The mood’s high in the dressing room after—Stevie and Jamie giving an encouraging talk about how promising this is, how this shows what they’re capable of, how they’ve got to carry this momentum forward. They take it in turns to speak, slotting in seamlessly with each other with new points and specific praise for certain players and gentle suggestions for others.  
  
When they get home to Stevie’s that night, they eat takeaway, watch a film on telly, and go to bed, kissing for awhile before Jamie pulls away and mumbles apologetically that he’s exhausted and Stevie hums because he is too, pulling him back in but just to hold him, and so they both go to sleep.  
  
They beat PSV in the quarterfinals of the Champions League, and then Chelsea in the semis.  
  
And because of God or coincidence or some quirk of fate or some poetic symmetry, it’s AC Milan in the final. Of course it’s them.  
  
 _The best players in the world against us,_ Jamie says quietly.  
  
 _The best players in the world_ , Stevie agrees, _against them_.  
  
Jamie kisses him and tries to forget about the final altogether as he presses Stevie down into the bed, laughing as Stevie rolls them over, grinning as he looms over Jamie, descending to press his grin to Jamie’s eager mouth…  
  
They fly to Athens a few days before the match. Jamie has a good feeling. It’s Athens, the birthplace of the Olympics, the place Stevie scored that screamer against Olympiakos. It feels like a powerful city, like a city that worships sport, much like Liverpool does.  
  
They lose sleep, the pair of them, talking and dreaming the way they had two years ago. The fear doesn’t pull the air from their lungs this time, it’s excitement—they’re going to win, they’re going to win. Again.  
  
It’s Stevie and Jamie. They’re the perfect pair, and David’s beaten Goliath before.  
  
The first real inklings of fear come when they enter the stadium and see the familiar faces again—Dida and Pirlo and Kaká.  
  
They hold tough. Jamie makes clearance after clearance. Stevie puts in cross after cross, but every shot either goes wide or high, or lands neatly in Dida’s gloves.  
  
It’s near the end of the first half when Xabi goes in for a challenge on Kaká. It’s clumsy. It’s a foul. It’s a free-kick for the world’s best footballer.  
  
Andrea Pirlo lines it up, and the ball arcs, and it’s a thing of devastating beauty, but Pepe’s got it covered, he’s there—  
  
It hits Filippo Inzaghi’s arm and deflects into the goal. _That… wasn’t supposed to happen_ , Jamie thinks numbly. _That was a handball_. He argues with the referee, and so does Stevie, until they realize they’re pushing it, and conceding a goal is probably marginally better than both captains getting a caution. At least a goal was redeemable. _It’s okay_ , Jamie thinks, dazed, _we’ll score two. We can score two, surely_.  
  
 _David’s beaten Goliath before_ , he thinks, remembering sitting in his mother’s lap while she told him the story. _We’ve been David before, and we’ve beaten this Goliath before._  
  
The referee blows the whistle for halftime.  
  
They go to the dressing room and Rafa takes over, tells them it’s okay, tells them it’s better than it was two years ago, that they can still come back from this. _Istanbul was not a miracle_ , he says, _it was practice and patience and passing and scoring and work. You’ve still got all of those elements now. We can still do this._ He makes a few tactical adjustments and sends them out again.  
  
Stevie has a chance in the first few minutes of the second half. He’s right there, so close, when he gets tackled. _It’s okay_ , Jamie tells himself, _we’ll get one_. Stevie gets another chance, a one-on-one with Dida. _This is it_ , Jamie thinks, _this is it, there’s no way_ —  
  
Stevie doesn’t get enough power on it. Dida picks it up easily. Doubt trickles into Jamie’s mind for a second before he toughens himself up again.  
  
Rafa pulls Masch off and puts Crouchy on. Jamie understands the idea—it’s a good attacking substitution. But it’s risky—they _need_ Masch, to keep the midfield tight, close the gaps.  
  
Without him, spaces open up. It isn’t obvious at first, because they’re dominating, confidence rising every minute. _We’ll get one, we’ll get one, we just need one to make it to pens_ , Jamie thinks frantically, throwing his body around to keep them in with a chance.  
  
 _David’s beaten Goliath before. David’s beaten Goliath before_.  
  
Suddenly Kaká finds it—the pass Masch had always cut off before, the pass to Inzaghi, who beats Pepe and knocks it into the net. (Poor Pepe, Jamie’s going to buy him a drink after this.)  
  
It’s the eighty-second minute when Milan score their second. They’re back to praying for miracles.  
  
Dirk gets them one back, bless every blond hair of that beautiful Dutch face, and maybe they can still—  
  
If David beat Goliath every time, it wouldn’t make much of a story.  
  
  
On May 23, 2007, Goliath wins, and Steven Gerrard tells his teammates good job, and takes a lightning fast shower so he can’t cry.  
  
As soon as he and Jamie get back into their hotel room, Stevie climbs into bed, and Jamie follows him, settling Stevie against him comfortably.  
  
Stevie cries, and Jamie cries, too.  
  
 _I just thought—I thought we’d have it again, J._  
  
 _I know, love, me too._  
  
 _Wanted to kiss you on the pitch. Like I did Xabi._  
  
Jamie’s taken aback _. I—I would have liked that. Might have been hard to make it look innocent, though, given that you’re the love of my life._  
  
Stevie mouth quivers a little at the straightforward declaration, and his eyes fill all over again. Jamie pulls him closer.  
  
 _I wanted that with you_ , Stevie whispers.  
  
 _Me too, love. More than anything_.  
  
It’s quiet for awhile.  
  
 _The sex would have been amazing_.  
  
Jamie bursts into laughter and also kind of bursts into tears, and it’s all a bit of a mess, really. They fall asleep like that.  
  
They wake up wrapped around each other and with tearstained pillowcases and sore, itchy eyes.  
  
At least it’s the end of the season, Jamie thinks, heavy with the exhaustion of knowing that it’s all over. They haven’t won anything, except for that stupid Community Shield, for the first time in _ages_. Failure isn’t a new feeling to Jamie, and it’s still just as awful as he remembers it. Worse, even.

  
  
They run away. That’s what it feels like, anyway. They’re at home just long enough to pack a suitcase with their toothbrushes, a few books, enough clothes to get by, and they run away, to some island paradise. They ignore football entirely, as much as they can.  
  
They watch telly, walk on the beach, swim, kiss, sleep together, _sleep_ together, and cook and laugh and smile at each other like two normal lads in love.  
  
One day, it doesn’t hurt so much, and when a kid on the beach kicks a ball a little too far, Jamie intercepts it and kicks it to Stevie, old instinct kicking in. Stevie looks at him and grins, pulling off a ludicrous keepy-up trick before passing it back. He shoots Jamie a challenging grin, and Jamie pulls out his best tricks too—they’re not as good as Stevie’s, he’ll admit, but they’re not bad, before passing it back to the awestruck kid.

Not too long after, there’s a cluster of kids surrounding them. The kids take their hands and pull them apart. Stevie picks half of them for his team, and Jamie takes the rest for himself, and they mime instructions to their young teammates, none of whom speak English. Jamie and Stevie take all the throws, until they decide that long-ball football is not the way to teach kids the game, and they make the kids take them instead. There's banter flowing on both sides, two languages flying past each other, as Jamie and Stevie call the kids tricky little bastards and the kids call them something that's probably similar in meaning.

It's brilliant, just _fun_ in a way that football hasn't been in a long time, barefoot in the sand while the kids try to take the ball off them. Sometimes they let them, feigning dismay when they do. One of the boys though, he's brighter than the rest, takes the ball off Jamie without Jamie letting him. He clicks with Stevie instantly, the skinny little thing, and Stevie, bless him, gets him a hat-trick of goals. The kid takes off and runs to hug Stevie, and Stevie chuckles fondly and hugs him back.

Jamie wonders, for half a second, if that's how Stevie would be as a father.

It’s the best game of five-a-side Jamie can remember, maybe the best he's ever played.

They go back every single day, until the group of kids gets bigger. Until it's not five-a-side anymore, but proper eleven v. eleven football. Until Jamie and Stevie find themselves booted to the bench, coaching the boys who don't understand them, yelling their names and making vague hand gestures, hoping to convey 'keep the defense tight' and 'don't let gaps open up' and 'play the percentage pass, lad, come on!'

Jamie lets himself imagine, in the instant after one of his kids scores a goal, a future like this. Him and Stevie coaching together. Maybe at the Academy. Maybe they'd have a little boy there, following his fathers' footsteps. He shakes his head a little to loosen the enticing image and shouts fondly at his skipper to get back into position.

  
A few days later, Stevie’s watching football on the telly when Jamie walks in. He looks up, guilty, reaching for the remote to change the channel, when Jamie drops onto the couch next to him and leans into him.  
  
 _Who’s playing?_ he asks, pressing a kiss to Stevie’s neck and settling against his shoulder.  
  
They argue over the effectiveness of the formations of the two teams. During halftime, Stevie makes them tea, and Jamie gets out the biscuits, and it’s even sweeter for it. It feels like home, the pair of them arguing over football between lazy kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to pretend that one of the kids who played with them grows up to be a professional footballer, maybe even makes it to the Prem. 
> 
> Maybe even signs for Liverpool, plays for Stevie, and tells him the story one day in his office. Stevie probably cries when he finds out and makes Jamie come in and listen to the story too. 
> 
> Jamie doesn't cry. Much.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie makes three phone calls, and closes a door. 
> 
> Stevie's there five minutes later. 
> 
> "Change your mind, Jamie."

It’s July of 2007. They’ve recovered from the final.  
  
(Mostly.)  
  
They’re each at their own houses, an increasingly rare occurrence, when Jamie decides something. He’s been thinking about it for awhile, and he wakes up one morning, alone in his own bed, mind clear of all Stevie-induced confusion, and he just _knows_ , somehow. He’s never been an idle man, always acted out his decisions once he’d made them instead of waiting to doubt himself.  
  
So Jamie makes three phone calls, and closes a door.  
  
The first call is to Sven. Sven talks to him awhile, tries to make him reconsider. It doesn’t work. Stronger men than Sven Eriksson have tried to make Jamie change his mind, and _they_ didn’t succeed, either. The conversation isn’t very long.  
  
Then he makes a phone call to the FA. They send his agent a form for him to fill out, and he signs it, and his agent sends it back. He gets an email letting him know that the form has been processed.  
  
He has one more call to make. He doesn’t _have_ to, technically, but he _feels_ like he does. It’s the worst of all. He dials the familiar number, has had it memorized for years now, and waits, fingers drumming nervously against his thigh.  
  
Stevie hangs up when he tells him.  
  
(Stevie’s never hung up on him before.)  
  
He’s at his doorstep five minutes later, which is a matter of some concern, because he was at his parents’ place, and that’s a solid fifteen minutes away. Jamie would ask, but… maybe now’s not the time.  
  
Jamie opens the door. Stevie steps inside without saying hello and closes the door behind him.  
  
_What the fuck, J_. Stevie’s voice is flat. Jamie might have wished for anger, but it would have been pointless, because it was on the horizon, whether he wanted it or not. He could almost hear the _Jaws_ theme in his head.  
  
_What the fuck, James?_ Stevie asks again, voice increasing in volume. Jamie flinches at his given name, a sure sign that Stevie is properly angry. The music in his head begins speeding up.  
  
_You didn’t want to talk to me about it at all? You didn’t want to tell me before you went and fucking did it?_  
  
_You didn’t have the fucking nerve to come tell me in person?_ After each question, Stevie’s voice gets louder, he gestures bigger, he steps a little closer to Jamie, who might have been afraid if he didn’t already know Stevie inside out and backwards.  
  
_You want it in person, Stevie?_ Jamie adores this man, but he’s never been a pushover, and he’s not starting now.  
  
_Well, here you go, then. I’m retiring from international football._  
  
_Why?_ Stevie shouts. _What made you leave me there alone? What made you leave me to the mercy of fucking Terry and that Manc wanker Neville?_  
  
_You didn’t mind them so much a couple of years ago! Eating up every word they whispered in your ear!_  
  
_That’s bullshit, Jamie, and you know it! I chose you! Every time, I chose you, Carra. Every fucking time._  
  
He burns bright, his Stevie, and once he’s burned all his anger away, he speaks softly and it hurts Jamie ten times more.  
  
_What am I supposed to do without you?_  
  
_I’m not as good as you, Stevie—_  
  
_That doesn’t mean—_  
  
_Let me finish. I let you have your turn, now let me speak._ Stevie may think he can do flat anger, but Jamie’s been doing it longer. Stevie falls silent and breaks eye contact, stares at his shoes.  
  
_I’m not as good as you, but I’m not just around to share your bed, either. I’m a footballer in my own right. There are things I have to… consider._  
  
Jamie’s voice becomes gentle as he continues.  
  
_You don’t understand yet, of course you don’t. You’re two years behind. And each year is longer than the last, Stevie, as far as my legs can tell._  
  
_I know you have to earn your way into the team. I know that. But I’m twenty-nine now, Stevie. I train my ass off, and I never get picked._  
  
_And England training isn’t like Liverpool training, Stevie. You know that. It’s aggressive, everyone’s trying to get picked, the boys play it like it’s a match. One of these days I’m going to get hurt, the way Terry flies into tackles, and I’m going to end up missing a month if I pull something, six months if I break something, a year if my knee goes. I don’t heal as fast as I used to._  
_I’m just too old now to train if I’m not going to play, Stevie._  
  
Jamie sighs.  
  
_My body’s going._  
  
_No, it’s not, J, you’re fit as you ever were_ , Stevie says, protesting vehemently, trying to push back the hands of time with nothing but the muscles of his back and the strength of his convictions. God, how Jamie loves him.  
  
_It is. My body’s going, or it’s going to start going soon. I have to start trying to pick and choose, try to stretch out the time I’ve got left. I’m trying to stay with you and play, for as long as my body lets me. And that time is going to be years shorter if we’re wearing Liverpool shirts most of the time and England shirts during our breaks._  
  
_Maybe if I actually got to play now and again, I’d stay. I love representing the country, standing up there next to you, but I never get to. And I can’t play like I’m twenty anymore, Stevie. I’m not. I’m trying to stay as long as I can. But that has to mean Liverpool first and England not at all._  
  
Stevie pushes him against the wall in his own front hall and kisses him hard, bites at his lower lip and shoves his hands under his shirt.  
  
_Change your mind_ , he says.  
  
_No._  
  
He kisses him again, hand inching past Jamie’s waistband. _Change your mind, Jamie._  
  
_No, Stevie._  
  
He presses his mouth to Jamie’s neck, opens it and bites down, pulls in and doesn’t let go, and Jamie knows that there’ll be a round purple mark there tomorrow.  
  
_Change your mind, Jamie_. Something in his tone changes. Stevie’s begging now, pleading with him. _Please, Jamie, change your mind_.  
  
_I can’t, Stevie, I can’t. I’m doing this for you and me and Liverpool, and I can’t change my mind now_.  
  
Stevie pulls him to his own bedroom and pushes him over onto his own bed, settling his weight on top of him.  
  
_Let’s see if I can’t figure out some way to change your mind,_ he says.  
  
_(You can’t,_ Jamie thinks.)  
  
_Let’s see_ , Jamie says.  
  
The next morning, Stevie wakes up first. He’s looking at Jamie when Jamie wakes up, staring at the mark on his neck. He reaches out and presses a finger to it.  
  
_I’m sorry_ , he says, _I know we shouldn’t._  
  
Jamie leans in and kisses him gently. _I haven’t changed my mind_.  
  
_I know. I love you_ , Stevie says.  
  
Jamie doesn’t know if it’s _I love you still, even though you’re wrong about this,_ or _I love you for thinking of me when you made your decision,_ or if it’s just _I love you, and nothing can ever make me not love you_.  
  
He asks him which it is, because he really wants to know, and Stevie laughs and kisses him (and _oh_ , he thought he’d get used to it at some point, but he hasn’t, it’s been a over a year now (or over six years now, depending on how you count) and it still makes his stomach swoop like the roller coasters he liked riding as a child).  
  
_It’s all of them_ , Stevie says. _It’s I love you, in all of its shadows and sunny bits._


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie breaks his toe. So he's watching the match sitting on his sofa at home when he sees Jamie go down and not get up. He's just lying on his back, face tight with pain, gasping, gasping for breath, and Stevie feels his own chest tighten, feels every muscle straining with the urge to go to Jamie, see Jamie, take care of his Jamie. 
> 
> In other words, the 2007-08 doesn't start well.

The 2007-08 season doesn’t start very well. Robbie leaves, in the summer, and that’s hard—it had been so easy to sink back into familiar rhythms, letting him take care of them in his own way. He comes over to visit them in the summer, to say goodbye.  
  
They drink some beer and reminisce, and Stevie makes them all a cup of tea and Robbie looks at the pair of them fondly.  
  
_Don’t you two go ruining this, okay?_ He says, only half-joking. _I’ve got fifty quid on you making it._  
  
_Who’re you betting on us with?_ Jamie asks skeptically.

  
 _Macca_ , _o'course_.  _He’s the only one of the three of us who missed you two going all moony-eyed over each other. That’s the problem with reading, isn’t it. Never looked up, our skinny little Macca. Knew more about the Serbian economy than he did about the fact that two of his teammates were hooking up in hotel rooms_.  
  
_We didn’t, to be fair_ , Stevie points out. _Not properly._ _Not while he was here._  
  
_The pair of you, you weren’t exactly subtle. It was like watching two kids with crushes making eyes at each other._  
  
_You didn’t properly notice until you came back, so I don’t think we were_ that _obvious,_ Jamie replies smoothly.  
  
_That’s because you got more obvious while I was gone. Should’ve had a betting pool with the lads, is what I should’ve done. And then told you two to get together and collected my winnings._  
  
_We are truly heartbroken, Rob, that you couldn’t turn a tidy profit off our love lives._  
  
_Not yet. Stick it out and I might still make a few quid on you two._  
  
_Damn_ , Jamie says. _Hate to say it, Steve, but I’ve gotta leave you now. Can’t be making Rob any money, now can I?_  
  
_Funny that you say that, J,_ I _was just about to leave_ you!  
  
_Oh haha, lads, very funny, we both know that if you’re choosing between making me money and making Macca money, it’s gotta be me. Looked after you all these years, consider this payment for all that, yeah?_  
  
Jamie sighs. _Guess you’ll have to put up with me a bit longer, Stevie._  
  
_Just until Rob kicks the bucket, though._ Stevie says optimistically. _Could be any day, fat little fella like him._  
  
_Kids are so ungrateful,_ Robbie sighs.  
  
He hugs them extra tight when he goes and tells them he’s proud of them, and excited to watch them play together for many years to come, tells them to take care of each other. He pulls them both down to kiss their foreheads—he’s such a short little thing, Robbie is—pats their cheeks one last time, and says his last goodbyes.  
  
That night Jamie promises himself he won’t disappoint him. He’ll do everything in his power to make sure that Robbie does win that bet.  
  
(Because he’s a generous friend, of course. It’s absolutely _not_ because Steven Gerrard is quite possibly the love of his life.)  
  
  
In August, Stevie fractures his toe in a Champions League qualifier against Toulouse. He plays four days later against the doctor’s advice, which only makes it worse, of course. Rafa tells him in no uncertain terms, accompanied by the stony-faced doctor, that he’s not going to be traveling to Sunderland.  
  
Stevie puts up a halfhearted protest, tries to insist he can be on the bench, at least, or even in the stands, but agrees after Rafa insists.  
  
(Rafa still calls him Gerrard, even though he calls everyone else by their first names, and it wouldn’t do to piss off his boss or make his damn toe any worse.)  
  
(And he’s always been a bit sensitive about his toes, ever since the time he nearly lost one when he was a kid, nearly missed his career before it started. Nearly missed out on feeling Anfield in all its glory, nearly missed out on the feeling of winning at Old Trafford and Goodison Park.  
  
Nearly missed out on countless trophies. On Istanbul.  
  
Nearly missed out on _Jamie_.  
  
That last one haunts him the most—how would they have found each other in that world? Would Jamie have fallen for the next pretty young lad with magic feet who smiled at him during training? Or Michael—Michael had always liked Jamie, as far as Stevie could tell. Maybe if Stevie hadn’t been there…  
  
It’s… not a productive line of thought, and it’s not fair on either of them, so he forces himself to drop it.)  
  
  
He watches from home instead, beer in hand. It's not a great match, really. 

  
He watches all the players, sees how fluid the play is. (Or isn't. Rafa's pretty big on positional discipline.) Sami comes off injured, and that's a concern.  
  
And then Pepe and Jamie are rushing towards the same ball. Pepe gets there first and saves it. That should be a good thing. But Jamie’s going too fast to get out of Pepe’s way, and gets hit in the chest, bouncing back and hitting the ground with a thud.  
  
_It’s fine_ , Stevie thinks. _He’ll get up any second now, let Pepe know he’s okay, and get back into position._  
  
But Jamie's not getting up. He's just lying on his back, face tight with pain, gasping, gasping for breath, and Stevie feels his own chest tighten, feels every muscle straining with the urge to go to Jamie, see Jamie, take care of his Jamie. Pepe's beside him, gloved hand gentle on Jamie’s shoulder, and then he’s gesturing to the technical area and the medics are too, a moment later. Stevie wants to shove them all out of the way to see for himself.  
  
The doctor sits him up, gently, checks him over. Jamie tries to stay stoic, but he flinches slightly when the doctor palpates one of his ribs. The doctor signals for a substitution, but Jamie shakes his head vigorously, barks that he’s fine, that he’s staying on. Stevie's heart is racing as if he's just been doing sprints. Jamie, Jamie, _Jamie_. _Please let Jamie be okay_ , he begs. _Please let Jamie be okay._  
  
He is, or he fakes it well, if he isn't. He rises to his feet and brushes the doctor away, ignoring his protests. The doctor sends him a long, long look and walks off the pitch. He sits down immediately, starts pulling supplies out of his bag and rearranging things, and checking his radio anxiously. The moment the halftime whistle goes he's out of his seat, shifting from foot to foot and waiting for Jamie to go down the tunnel and following close behind.  
  
Stevie's just about half mad. The fact that Jamie stays on the pitch should make him feel better, really, but he knows Jamie, knows that he’s stubborn and has a stupidly high pain tolerance, an almost unnatural way to suppress his common sense to spend more time kicking a rubber sack of air around on some grass with a bunch of other idiots with screwed up priorities.  
  
He spends halftime looking up train times and driving routes to Sunderland. Just in case. But he sits, deciding to watch the second half. Maybe it was better than it looked. Maybe it was an impact injury, pain fading with time. Maybe the doctor was overreacting, jumping to conclusions.  
  
(Maybe Stevie was just trying to make himself feel better.)  
  
Jamie comes out for the second half, jaw tight. He’s got some heavy strapping round his ribs. It’s subtle, but Stevie knows that body better than anyone, knows that Jamie’s chest doesn’t look quite that broad under the jersey, knows that his shirt isn’t sitting on him quite the same way.  
  
(Oh god, he’s pathetic, he is, but he loves him, _he loves him_ , what’s he supposed to do?)  
  
He watches the second half. They win, which normally would make him happy, but Jamie runs differently. He still sprints when he has to, but he walks when he can, hangs back and takes a minute to breathe when the attack’s on instead of joining in, jogs cautiously when he can get away with it. He presses his hand to the side of his chest now and again, fingers gentle. He's breathing like a sixty-year-old chain smoker who’s just climbed five flights of stairs.  
  
He gives a post match interview, and he's still sweating and breathing deeply and quickly, as if he's still in the middle of playing. His eyes are starting to glaze over. He misses the question a few times, has to ask the interviewer to repeat or elaborate, and he could do these sorts of things in his sleep when he’s himself. His hand hovers in front of that spot on the side of his chest, like he's too afraid to touch.  
  
_He must be fine_ , Stevie tells himself. _They wouldn’t let him do post match interviews unless he was fine_.  
  
He watches the post-match analysis—it’s odd to watch Macca on telly saying nice things about them.  
  
  
_Sorry to interrupt you, Macca_ , the host says, _but we've just learned that Jamie Carragher has left the stadium in an ambulance. We're guessing the injury is the result of an unfortunate collision with his own keeper, here._  
  
Macca twitches a bit before he steadies himself—he's always liked Carra. They replay the clip, talk about how terribly unfortunate it is, Macca says that Carra's a really good lad, consummate professional, always an excellent captain when he’s called upon...  
  
Stevie doesn’t hear any of it, nothing past _ambulance_. He’s out the door by the time Macca gets to _consummate professional_. Time feels slow, like he's moving as fast as he can, but through molasses. He just wishes he were there already, at Jamie's bedside, screaming at him for being so reckless and then kissing him because _how could you, Jamie, how could you do that to me, I was so scared for you, don't you ever do that again, J, don't you_ ever _._


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stevie rushes across the country to Jamie's bedside. 
> 
> Things aren't easy when they get home, either.

He drives carefully—the last thing he needs is to get himself into a car crash before he gets to see Jamie. But he also drives _fast_ , because they took Jamie in an ambulance and the last time they did that was for the broken leg four years ago, and it's _not_ a broken leg this time. He thinks again about how hard Jamie was breathing during the post match interviews.

 

It’s a three hours journey, but it takes Stevie two hours and forty-five minutes. As he’s driving in, he calls the club doctor.

 

_Steven? What’s going on, are you alright?_

_Yeah, doc, perfectly fine. I just wanted to know what hospital Jamie was in._

_Why?_

_Sending him flowers. Joke gift, like._

 

The doctor tells him.

_Oh, and Stevie?_

_Yes?_

_I think he’d really appreciate those flowers. I think he misses those flowers when they’re not around._

 

Stevie flushes in the privacy of his car.

_Yes, sir. Those flowers will be getting there shortly. Rush delivery and all that._

_Good. I hope to see you in a couple of days, then._

 

Stevie gets to the hospital car park and pulls into a spot. He pulls out a baseball cap from his glove compartment, kept there specifically for instances like this, and because it seems to work for all the superheroes in the movies. He pulls it on and ducks into the hospital.

 

He goes up to the receptionist and asks quietly if she can tell him what room Jamie’s in. He glances around, and identifies himself quietly.

 

 _I’m his emergency contact_ , he says.

 

 _Right, yes_. The flustered woman says. _He’s in room 604_.

 

 _Thank you, miss_ , Stevie says gently with a smile. She stops him again, timidly asking for an autograph. It’s for her brother. He’s a big fan, apparently. Stevie sighs, but signs a scrap of paper for her—one autograph is a small price to pay, and she’s been very good about not making a fuss otherwise. He waves away her thanks with another smile, more sincere this time, and heads for the stairs.

 

He avoids the elevator—too much risk of being recognized and no easy escape routes. He takes the stairs instead—fewer people and nobody sticks with you too long. When he gets out, he’s pleased to see Jamie’s room is just down the hallway. He ducks in and finds a nurse adjusting something. She seems surprised to see him.

 

Jamie’s asleep, a drug of some sort in an IV drip in his arm—must be a sedative, or Jamie would never sleep this early. _The insomnia wouldn’t let him,_ Stevie thinks, _not without me_. He’s wearing a thin hospital gown, and Stevie can practically see through it to the bulky white bandages around his chest.

 

 _Does the gown have to be quite so sheer?_ Stevie wonders. Jamie deserves a bit of privacy, surely? His lad shouldn’t be so exposed when he hasn’t had a say in it. The nurses are probably getting an eyeful as it is. Premier League footballer, probably their most handsome patient by some margin. Stevie has a thought, and wonders, horrified, about _catheters_ , whether someone’s touched Jamie to put one in.

 

His gaze drops from Jamie’s face to his… ahem, _lap_.

_Steven Gerrard?_ The nurse asks.

 

His eyes snap up from Jamie’s crotch to her face, hoping she hadn’t caught the look.

_Yes, ma’am, here to check on my player._ He begs his body not to go red. Please, not right now.

 

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. _Right, yes, of course._

She keeps staring at him.

_How’s he doing?_ Stevie asks.

_He’s sleeping_ , she says, as if Stevie can’t see that.

_What’s his diagnosis?_

_Broken rib and pneumothorax_ , the nurse rattles off quickly.

_I know what a broken rib is,_ Stevie says, smiling wryly _, but I’m afraid you might have to explain that other one to me, Nurse._

_Pneumothorax?_ She looks around the room, tries to find a kind way to say it.

 

_Well, the rib broke inwards, you see, and it sort of, well, it punctured his lung. And lungs are elastic, you see, like balloons, so once it’s been punctured, air from the lung leaks into the chest cavity, and the lung collapses._

_So you’re saying his rib punctured his lung and caused it to collapse?_

_Yes, sir_. The nurse says quietly. _I’m sorry_.

_So what did they do, when he got here? How did they treat him?_

_They put the rib back into place first, and then they put a small tube into his chest, let out the air around the lung, so then the lung expanded back to its normal size._

_So right now, he’s breathing fine on his own?_

_Yes, sir. May I ask, how long did he have the injury before he came off?_

_He got it in the twenty-fifth minute, and didn’t come off until the final whistle. He gave a quick post-match interview, and then the club doctor got him into the ambulance, kicking and screaming, I’d guess, and brought him here._

_Some pain tolerance_ , the nurse mutters, whistling lowly.

_He’s an idiot_ , Stevie says firmly, eyes locked on Jamie’s chest, covered in a white hospital blanket.

 

The nurse doesn’t say anything, just purses her lips.

_A collapsed lung—that must be serious. Have people died from that?_

_Some people do, yes, especially if they continue exerting themselves. Agitating could make the puncture bigger._

_I can’t wait for him to wake up so I can kill him_ , Stevie mutters.

 

The nurse doesn’t say anything, just leaves the room and closes the door behind her.

 

Stevie carries a chair over to the bed. He watches Jamie’s heart monitor, the steady rhythm that tells him he’s okay, that the idiot he’s had the misfortune of falling in love with is going to be fine. He falls asleep eventually, and wakes to fresh sunshine pouring through the window.

 

There’s a different nurse now, and she’s brought in breakfast and seems to be in the middle of a conversation with Jamie.

 

Only Jamie looks like he’s sleeping. That’s what he looks like to most people, at least. Stevie isn’t exactly most people.

_Good morning_ , Stevie says to the nurse.

_I know you’re faking it, you idiot_. Stevie says to Jamie, rolling his neck and stretching his back to ease the ache. He’s not as young as he used to be, (who is, really?) and twenty-seven feels a long way away from twenty-three, the last time he slept in a hospital room chair. He almost wishes he’d just climbed into bed with Jamie and slept there instead, embarrassment be damned.

 

Jamie cracks his eyes open and looks at him, sheepish. He clears his throat. _Hi, Stevie. Wasn’t expecting you to come by_. He smiles wryly. _I would have tidied up, the place is such a mess._

 

 _You are such a fucking idiot_. Stevie says to him, voice calm and terrifyingly even. Jamie winces at the tone, and the nurse has heard enough arguments to know when to make her exits, and so she does, eager to escape.

 

 _We got the three points_ , Jamie points out, as if that makes up for it.

 

 _You punctured your lung and played another seventy minutes of football, you absolute asshole_. Stevie’s voice is genuinely angry, and Jamie can count the number of times he’s heard that voice directed at him on one hand, and still have a few fingers left over.

 

_The nurse said last night that there are people who die of this. Do you understand that, Jamie? You could have died out there yesterday, you terrible, reckless, brave boy. And then where would I be? Telling your mother how sorry I am? Watching your brothers cry over you like my own heart wasn’t breaking too?_

_I’m sorry_ , Jamie says, actually looking like he means it, _I didn’t consider—_

_You didn’t consider._ Stevie’s voice is ice. _I’d rather lose the game than watch you pass out from oxygen deprivation, you wanker._

 

 _Next time, I’ll get subbed off, go to hospital straight away_.

 

Stevie laughs bitterly. _Don’t lie to me, Jamie. You’ll stay on next time, and I’ll still be here, because I’ll still love you_. The words are enough to halt whatever Jamie was about to say. Stevie sounds frustrated with himself, as if he doesn’t want to be in so deep, wants to know that he can still walk away if he wanted to.

 

 _Stevie_. Jamie’s voice is soft and earnest. _Really. I won’t do it again. I didn’t realize how much it hurt you._

 

Stevie looks at him, really looks at him, to check his face for a lie. He doesn’t find one. He leans in and kisses Jamie, just the once, sweet and insistent and deep. He pulls back and notes with some satisfaction that Jamie’s heart monitor shows his heart beating faster.

 

_You better not or I’d retire the day after your funeral, and out us both while I was at it._

 

Jamie shrugs, immediately regretting it and letting out a hiss of pain. He sighs and offers Stevie an apologetic little smile instead.

 

 _It was like I couldn’t breathe either, Jamie. Kept wishing it was me instead_.

Stevie takes a deep breath.

 

_You’ve been around too long, J. Don’t think I know how to be without you anymore._

_I’m sorry. I really am._

_I know you are_. Stevie’s holding Jamie’s hand. He pulls it up and presses his lips to the knuckles.

 

 _Hey Stevie? You take my breath away_. Jamie says softly, smile tugging at his lips.

 

_If that was a joke about your punctured lung, I’m leaving you._

 

Jamie pouts at him. Stevie laughs at the expression.

 

_Aww, my big bad J can take a broken rib and punctured lung, but one line and he’s pouting?_

_What can I say? You make me soft, Gerrard. I’m a mess when it comes to you_.

 

He looks serious, like he means it. Stevie bends again to kiss his mouth back into a smile.

 

Jamie is discharged, and Stevie bundles him up and drives him home and makes him breakfast and touches him softly, gently, for days and days, and weeks and weeks. Jamie tries to remember how worried Stevie had been, tries to let it go, even if the kid gloves treatment annoys him (and it does).

 

Jamie takes a week off. Just seven days, during which Stevie tries to be a good… boyfriend? partner? not-quite-a-husband-but-nearly?, tries to look after him, tries to take care of him without fussing over him, tries subtly to make him soup and order him pizza, as much as he can do, given that he has a broken toe.

 

Jamie appreciates it, or pretends to, whispers his thank yous and presses kisses to Stevie’s mouth. _A man with a punctured lung has no right to steal Stevie’s breath away,_ Jamie thinks, and so the kisses stay chaste.

 

Jamie doesn’t miss much, half by virtue of spending his nights in his captain’s bed, and half because he only takes a week off, and that week he spends not at home resting, but on the sidelines, yelling at the other lads until Stevie’s yelling back at him. _Don’t strain your lungs—sorry, the one working lung you have, Carra!_

_I didn’t lose it, you idiot, it’s just a little bit punctured!_

_It can’t be ‘a little bit punctured’—it’s just punctured, J!_

_James,_ Rafa says mildly, _maybe you could go home now. Have a rest._

_Yes, boss,_ Jamie says reluctantly, glaring at Stevie as he makes his way to the car, remembering with a grin that he and Stevie had driven in together and Stevie would have to hitch a ride with someone else.

 

When Stevie gets home that day, courtesy of one slightly-amused Xabi Alonso, Jamie’s pouting on the sofa and determinedly not looking at him. Stevie leans down to kiss him, and Jamie turns away, so it ends up being a peck on the cheek.

 

_I’m sorry, J, but someone’s gotta look after you, or you’d play through a broken leg—oh wait, you already tried that, a couple of years ago, if you’d recall._

_Don’t even know why I bother with you_ , Jamie mutters, turning his face to let himself be kissed.

 

 _Hmm, I dunno, maybe it’s because you love me,_ Stevie teases.

 

_Eh, you’re alright, I guess. Could do worse. I mean, it’d be hard, but I could do worse. Y’know, probably._

_Yeah? You’re so mean to me, J, so mean to the boy who loves you._

Stevie settles down beside Jamie and Jamie leans into him.

_It’s hard for me,_ Jamie confesses _, the waiting. I wanna be out there with you._

_I know, dearest,_ Stevie says softly, sneaking his hand past the waistband of Jamie’s sweats. _Let me take your mind off it for a bit, J._

 

\---

 

If Stevie’s gentle with him, he’s just about the only one. The club don’t want to rush him back, of course, but Jamie has never seen injury as a valid reason to miss a game, not until he’s more liability to the team than asset. And after the punctured lung? He’s a liability for awhile, as long as the doctor says it’s potentially fatal for him to play, as long as Stevie looks at him like he’s terrified of losing him. But then he’s an asset again—rib not quite completely healed, and lung technically still kind of punctured, but patched over, at least, and he can sprint again, even take a hit as long as he’s got some strapping on and it’s not too bad.

 

He gets himself back into contention for the starting lineup the week before Portsmouth. Stevie’s just barely behind him, recovering from his fractured toe—a start is perhaps just slightly beyond him, but he might yet make the bench if he keeps performing well.

 

Rafa takes Jamie aside on Wednesday and tells him he’s starting, unless things change drastically for the worse and he can’t. He’s ecstatic, of course, goes home and tells Stevie, expecting to be properly kissed out of his mind, expecting to get a few rounds in before Friday, as many as they can, before the night before matchday.

 

 _You can’t._ Stevie says.

 

_What?_

_You can’t play. You’re still recovering, your rib is still fragile, you’re not playing._

_When did you get your medical degree, then?_ Jamie jokes, hoping to end the discussion there.

 

His boy is a stubborn one, though, and Jamie’s not surprised when he sees the way Stevie’s jaw tightens.

 

_I’ve been with you to every single appointment, J._

_That doesn’t make you a doctor._

_Maybe not, but I know you’re not healed, not a hundred percent._

_I don’t care—I’m going to play._

_You remember what I said to you in that hospital?_

_There were a lot of things. And I was high on painkillers. Just say what you wanna say, love, please._

_I asked you not to, next time, not to risk your health when you knew you were injured. And I told you. I told you that I knew you would anyway, because that’s just the sort of person you are, and I knew that. And you told me you wouldn’t, J. You told me you’d be more careful. And now here you are, ready to run back out there. Do you think the Portsmouth lads are gonna care that you just got back from breaking a rib?_

_I—I have to play, Stevie. I can’t just sit back anymore, it’s driving me mad._

_Fine, then I’m not coming to your hospital room next time. It’s not fair for you to do this to me, James._

 

That night, Stevie sleeps in his own bed and Jamie does too. The next night, too. On Friday morning, both of Liverpool’s captains come in looking tired and grumpy. They settle down next to each other in the locker room. Their shoulders brush, and Jamie relaxes, letting go of a tension he hadn’t remembered feeling. Stevie only tenses more, though, barely speaks to Jamie all day.

 

That night, they each go home to their own bed and sleep. Or try to sleep. It’s cold and the bed is too big and somehow Stevie’s sheets smell like Jamie’s aftershave and Jamie’s pillow smells like Stevie’s cologne—the whole thing is a mess, really.

 

Portsmouth is a goalless draw. Jamie starts, and Stevie comes off the bench to try to score a winner, late on. The plan doesn’t quite work, though, because whenever he’s not participating in the attack, he deviates from his position and settles in just in front of Jamie, protecting him and taking on attackers first so Jamie doesn’t have to make as many challenges.

 

Rafa gives him a look as they walk into the dressing room, but he stares back, defiant and unapologetic, and Rafa decides to let it go. Managers come and go, after all, but Stevie’s going to be here forever. If it were between him and Stevie, there’s no question who would win—with the press, with the club, with the Kop.

 

On the bus back, they’re silent. Jamie’s still upset at being coddled, and Stevie’s still upset at being ignored. Halfway back, Jamie lets go of a deep breath and takes Stevie’s hand, and Stevie threads their fingers together. The rest of the coach ride is quiet, but warm.

 

That night, Stevie is gentle, but he still pushes Jamie onto his back and climbs on top of him, careful to support his own weight. _I’m sorry_ , he whispers, _you were right. I just worry._

_I noticed._

_I can have another vice-captain, J. Can’t have another you, though, not another boy out there, not for me._

_You’re a softie, Stevie_ , Jamie says quietly, pulling him in and kissing him.

 

Jamie gets a clean bill of health a few weeks later, even has the x-ray to prove it, his ribcage looking refreshingly whole.

 

At some point, he realizes that he’d assigned that as the final milestone before they could go back to normal. In _all_ aspects of their lives. He half-expects to be dragged up to bed and shown a good time as soon as he opens the door. But it doesn’t end up working that way—Stevie’s still gentle with him, for another couple of weeks, even, until Jamie snaps one day and shoves him into a wall and kisses him fiercely.

 

 _I’m not gonna break_ , he growls, and Stevie… stands corrected. And then he’s not standing at all, finds himself _being carried_ , of all the ridiculous things, back to bed, until he’s lying back and Jamie’s leaning over him.

 

 _Point taken_ , he murmurs. _You’re not gonna break_.

 

 _So I’m guessing Jamie liked his flowers?_ The club doctor says knowingly to Stevie a few days later, during a water break. It’s not Jamie’s first day back at training, but it is the first day Stevie doesn’t want to cover him in bubble wrap and make all the challenges for him. Ironically enough, now that Stevie’s letting go and letting Jamie stand on his own, they haven’t stopped staring at each other all day, the idiot co-captains, much to everyone’s amusement.

 

(The idea of captain and vice-captain had gone away years ago—it was ludicrous to anyone who saw them in action to say that they weren’t completely equal).

 

 _What? Oh, yes, he loved them_. Stevie says, smiling at Jamie, who somehow senses he’s being watched and pulls a face over Lucas’s shoulder. Stevie laughs fondly.

 

 _I’m glad_. The doctor says, more to say it than to have it heard. Stevie’s gone anyway, even if he’s still standing there.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Stevie and Jamie played together for fifteen years, pretty much, so this is going to be long.


End file.
